Wildcard Quilts

Summer 2009. Gone.

New schools. New jobs. New projects. New responsibilities. New budget. New outlook. New season.

Autumn, I was looking forward to your cool. Why'd you go and get so dang busy? NOT cool.

I'm still remembering our summertime fun. Fondly.

From the last day of preschool...

to the first day of kindergarten. (Holding self-portrait. Cape included.)

From planting a blueberry bush...

to harvesting and preserving (for the first time!) fruit from an apricot tree.

From turning my baby boy into a little girl... (For just one day. Okay, two.)

to turning my big boy into a concert-lover (his first, American Idol--you Lambert fans know what the blue means!).

From first soccer games...

to first grape-picking.

From costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

to teaching Charlie about costumes.

And to this... which may just be the cutest picture of our summer.

Our lives have changed dramatically this past month or two, with hopes for an even better future (although we are blessed to have an incredible, awesome NOW.) But what a wonderful, relaxing, fun summer it was. I'm so glad we took the time to be there for it.

I wore pillow shams to my high school reunion.

This weekend my husband and I attended our 20th high school reunion. We caught up with many friends from our pasts, unearthed answers to decades-old questions (both trivial and significant), and stumbled across memories we didn't even know we had forgotten. After the events came to a close (yes, events--there were three), I felt happy. Happy to know that old friends were doing well, happy to find that--in anticipating a major upheaval in our little family during the coming weeks, months, and even years--we are doing quite well, too. Nice to have that reminder reflected right back at you. We're solid.

But of course, the weeks leading up to the reunion weren't filled with deep thoughts about my past. No philosophical musings about how both of our lives had been shaped in part by these people we were about to re-meet. No. The weeks leading up to the reunion, at least for me, were spent sifting through my closet. What to wear, what to wear? I mean, THREE OUTFITS. That's asking a lot of a stay-at-home mom who hasn't been to a fancy restaurant, a dressy social gathering, or even a movie in over a year. Right now, "Steppin' Out with My Baby" means exactly that. Out with my baby. Capris, t-shirt, slip-on Mary Janes. And baby wipes for the impending mess on the t-shirt.

After a try-on marathon I felt confident about my fashion choices for two events:

Friday evening, alumni-only night at the high school: typical Stay-at-Home Mom attire. Capris, t-shirt, slip-on Mary Janes. With the addition of a beautiful beaded necklace my sister made. Fancy enough.

Saturday evening, dress-up banquet with real alcohol drinks and other indulgent stuff I had forgotten existed: chose the Stay-at-Home Rock Star look. I put the outfit together a few days before and walked into the front yard to show my husband. I immediately felt like I should hide. My neighbors didn't know this Jenny. Bretty said it was my style, though. And he had that look in his eye. (Yep, that one.) Done deal.

The third event was a Saturday afternoon picnic at a local park. Take the kids, bring your lunch, hang out and have fun kind of thing. A few weeks before I came across this post about making a skirt out of a sheet. I had been stuck for days trying to sew my first skirt from this Amy Butler pattern. I needed a break from it. A skirt from a sheet, huh? I figured I could at least finish it.

But instead of a sheet, I found two pillow shams I liked. Four bucks thrifted. See?

I unpicked the seams and decided I had enough fabric to do . . . something.

I added a raw-edge detail similar to the detail in the Amy Butler pattern I had been trying, trying, trying to complete.

Then I decided to add a big fat hem.

Ran out of fabric for a second hem, so I stole a bit of green from my stash.

And here's the finished skirt, all pressed and prettied up.

And here it is on me.

And finally, with less than ten minutes to decide what to wear before we departed to the picnic, I chose the pillow-sham skirt. With a t-shirt. And slip-on Mary Janes. And baby wipes for the mayonnaise and mustard and chocolate that 15-month-old Charlie ground into my skirt and shirt in an effort to keep mama within arms' reach among all the strangers. (I think there was some ground-in cheese, too.)

So. Stay-at-home mama. Stay-at-home rock star. Stay-at-home pillow-shams-into-skirt maker. Hmm. Perhaps I confused a few old friends who saw me at all three events. I mean, who was the real me? Who had Jenny become over these 20 years?

I remember reading a required book for one of my Women's Studies classes in college. It was called "Women's Ways of Knowing." It detailed exactly seven different ways that women could develop their self, voice, and mind. Seven ways of knowing.

When it came time to discuss the book in class, I was called on for my opinion. All I had to say was, "I am all of these women. I am all of them."

I am a stay-at-home mom. I am a rock star. (Okay, a wanna-be rock star. Still.) I am a thrifty pillow-sham-skirt-makin' fool.

I am all of these women. I am all of them.

Happy Balemtimes Day!

Another preschool party, another challenge--find the perfect valentine for Jack to make for his classmates. Like last year, we used lollipops as our muse.  But this year, Jack cut the hearts, dotted the dots, and stuck the stickers. (This year's project idea came from Martha Stewart Kids magazine.)

 

He was even moved to write a little note on the back of each valentine:

So, from our family to yours, happy Valentine's Day. Jack would wish you a happy Balemtimes Day. Said it that way last year. Says it that way this year. (It's just too darn cute to correct. I'm keeping my mouth shut.)

Inauguration art

During our own little inaugural celebration today, a crayon portrait of the new first family was created:

I offered to tape the portrait in our front window. Jack insisted that instead, we send it to President Obama. And so we will.

Hope, personified. Here in our home. Happy inauguration day. Happy day.

No strip. But a whole lotta tease.

The pincer grasp can take considerable time for babies to master. It's a daily process of practice makes perfect, really. Charlie's been using bits of cereal for his rehearsals. He's getting pretty good at it.

But sometimes he drops the gooey bits in the unlikeliest of places.

Since the womb, I had a feeling you were gonna be a good dancer, baby.

I just didn't expect you'd want to become a professional one.

A winter wonderland. But not for snowmen.

Did you know that Utah has the greatest snow on earth? It's true. Our license plates say so. Skiers and snowboarders come from around the world to visit us. Olympians train here. Oh, yes--we even hosted an Olympics here. Why? Because our snow isn't what you think of when you think of snow. Snow is cold. Wet. Heavy. Icy. Slushy. But not our snow. Not Utah snow. (Well, okay. It is cold.)

We have what you might call "desert" snow. Pick it up in your hand and it doesn't clump. You can scatter it like crystal-candy sprinkles on a cupcake. It's DRY. It's like powder. It's like really super frozen . . . sand. Yes. In fact, it's like having a sandy beach right in our front yard. Except the temperature is suited more toward polar bears. And you must wear at least four layers of clothing over your bathing suit. Plus snow boots with at least two pairs of socks. And you must be sure to walk slowly and surefootedly, lest you slip on a patch of un-snow-blowed sidewalk and break something. Something important. And there is no beach volleyball. Ever. Aside from that, it is exactly like a sandy beach. Right in our front yard!

Anyhoo, in celebration of Grandma Sophie's annual holiday visit, we decided to venture outside in our bathing suits--along with a mountain of assorted wooly and downy cover-ups--to build a snowman. How charming. How idyllic. What a great excuse to enjoy some traditional wintertime fun! Out we trudged.

Jack the four-year old quickly picked up a handful of snow and attempted to mold it into a snowball. Ah, a snowball fight. That's the spirit--wonderful idea! He squeezed the snow in his gloved palm and then released his fingers. A spatter of powdery specks fell to the ground.

Snow, yes. But no ball. No snowball.

Jack looked at his grandma. With both hands, Grandma scooped up a mound of snow and squeezed. Half of it quickly blew away in the gentle mid-morning wind. The other half she let silently fall to the ground.

"We can't make a snowman out of this," she said. "It doesn't stick together!"

Indeed. Lots and lots of snow. But no way to build a man out of it. Or was there?

Out of the necessities of a Utah winter, I give you our best shot at a snowman. Introducing . . .

FLAT SNOWMAN.

Run over by a Mack truck? Pummeled by a pro-wrestler? Flattened by a steam roller? The story behind Flat Snowman's flatness remains a mystery. It couldn't be that tragic of a story, though. I mean, he looks happy enough. And he's still sporting a completely three-dimensional nose.

Took about two minutes to build Flat Snowman. Then we headed back in to remove the mountain of woolies and downies. (Took about four times as long for that task.) Checked in on Flat Snowman this morning. Obviously, we've had more snow fall since that day:

Thank you, Flat Snowman, for making this winter more magical. Just the teeniest-tiniest of a smidge more magical, really. But still. Thank you.

Christmas, come and gone.

From the day of our first snow to now, I have not typed. I have not surfed. No single or double clicking. No freezing up, rebooting, or control-alt-deleting. No remembering or forgetting passwords. Email, yes--but only when essential to making Christmas merry. This year, I simply could not get Christmas and cyberspace to make nice and meet in the middle.

I chose Christmas. And I have a collection of blurry photos to prove it.

 Making sure, indoors, that last year's icicle lights would still work outdoors.

Painting feet and hands for our Christmas-wrapping plans.

So blurry, but so cute on Christmas morning.

Exploring the tree.

Over 300 goodies for neighbors and coworkers. One hundred of these.

Contemplating...


Christmas.

These photos turned out exactly how Christmas felt this year. A blur. But our days were scattered with moments of fun, moments of family, moments of gratefulness, moments of peace. Moments to capture and keep close, amid the blur.

Here's hoping your holiday was filled with crystal-clear moments.

Every day is Halloween 'round here . . .

. . . meaning every day is a day for dress up. As evidenced here and here, and over there, and right here. Yep, Jack's a dresser-upper. And if you've been following along, you know that superheroes have been what his dress-up is all about. But Jack shocked me this year when I asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween. Batman? Superman? The Green Goblin?

Nope. This year he wanted to be a sheriff. And so he was.

Ready to walk out the door for trick or treating. (Yep, that's already a smudge of chocolate on his chin.)

Now, mind you, this wasn't any old sheriff. After many, many questions about the purposes, personalities, and whereabouts of bandits throughout the month of October ("Mom, are there bandits living in Kaysville?"), Jack decided to be a BANDIT sheriff.

The bandit and the sheriff. The good guy and the bad guy, melded together as one. The lawmaker and the lawbreaker, one and the same. Two of Jack's favorite fantasy worlds colliding, one swallowing the other and vice versa.

Strange, I thought. At first. But with so, so many costumes to choose from--with so, so many roles he might play--why wouldn't he choose to be the best AND the baddest? He found a way to include the full spectrum of his imagination and play. Just couldn't choose between hero and villian.

Don't we all feel that way sometimes?

So I give you Jack the bandit AND Jack the sheriff. And no sheriff or bandit would be complete without a sidekick. So I give you Charlie the cow:

Earlier in the week, at another costumed event.

Charlie's been saying "ma, ma, ma" a lot these days. I thought that sounded a bit like "moo," so the cow costume was chosen. During trick or treating, however, Charlie sang "ba, ba, ba" around the neighborhood. Sounded much more like a sheep than a cow. Sorry, little Charlie. We'll choose your costume together next year, huh?

Happy belated Halloween, everyone!

Naptime in the family bed

Ah, naptime. To call it quits, right in the middle of the day. To drift off into nowhere for a while, just a little while, until you are needed again. To snuggle up to someone you love. To have someone snuggle up to you. To find that someone still sleeping next to you when you awake. Slow breath, softened face. Silence.

Oh, how I miss naptime in the family bed.

Until this fall, our Jack was a napper. We're talking two to three hour naps, every day. During my pregnancy with Charlie, Jack and I napped together every day. We'd snuggle in bed with a book around 1 p.m., and then cover ourselves up from toes to chins in too many blankets. Sometimes a little back would get a rub, sometimes a little leg would cross over a big leg. Sometimes one hand would hold another. And then, just sleep. Blissful sleep.

Sweet little Charlie came. And since the day he came home--even with four solid years of growing my own homemade mama wisdom--I haven't been able to get my two boys to nap at the same time. Not even for ten minutes. I recently took the boys on a flight to Denver with my sister and her daughter. On the flight there, my boys DID nap at the same time, Jack in his seat, Charlie in my arms. My sister looked across the aisle and noticed they were both conked out.

"Look," my sister whispered. "Your two are sleeping at the same time and you can't do anything--not even go to the bathroom!"

She was right. And my hypersonic fear of flying meant I couldn't even sleep along with them. Which is really all I've wanted to do since Charlie arrived. Sleep with both my babes in the middle of the day.

They say be careful what you wish for. It was a cruel moment--the realization that my dream of two boys napping had come true as I was silently screaming, hurtling through the air at 500 miles per hour, 30,000 feet above the earth. Strangely, though, the moment has given me hope. Remember in the movie Dumb and Dumber, when the leading lady tells Jim Carrey's character that he has a one in a million chance of hooking up with her? What does Jim's character say? He happily says, "So you're saying there's still a chance!" (Hey, sometimes you take hope wherever you can get it, even if it is from a film that has the word "dumb" in the title. Twice.)

What I'm saying is, it happened once. It can happen again. One of these days, the three of us--maybe even all four of us?--will be exhausted, all at the same time. We'll head to the family bed, tell a story or two, and then snuggle up just like this:

And sleep.

Scraps

With Jack underfoot and a baby under my ribcage (and now in my arms!) for so many months, quilting hasn't been much of a priority. But it has been greatly missed. It moved up on my priority list this past weekend. Much sooner than expected. I started experimenting a bit--not just with a pile of fabrics or a block design, but with how much I could actually accomplish in these bits and pieces of time I am beginning to receive from my boys. How far could I get sewing a seam, cutting a shape, following an idea?

When my quilting time felt like it was up, I looked down at the tiny pile of scraps I had created. Hmm. Got further along than I thought I would.

What a surprise. What a thrill. What a pretty little pile.

Bits and pieces of fabric, bits and pieces of time. Just what I needed. Thanks, boys.