Making things is something I’ve always really enjoyed. Whenever I could sink into working on a project I’d feel okay, whatever else might have been going on in my life. My husband is the same way. Z and E too, no matter how young (3 and a half and 19 months). Which makes me wonder if this is something people are born with, the drive – well, compulsion, really – to make stuff. It rescued me from unhappiness a bunch of times.
These days I make stuff compulsively every minute I get. Samples, pattern pieces, trying things out to see what works. And what doesn’t… though I tend to prefer forgetting my failures beyond, of course, taking note of what I shouldn’t repeat so as not to relive them. Well, mostly I remember to take note. I love how Z and E are adapting to me working away: they work away at whatever project is on hand themselves. They let me do bits and pieces of my work, enough to keep going, in between needing something from me RIGHT NOW AND IMMEDIATELY. Like that, in all caps. But perhaps showing them how to work away at something so that it fills you with peace will mean something to them. Someday. Even if, right now, it mostly just delays getting their drinking cup refilled, a piece of chocolate, a bandaid, a diaper change (ahem).
Yeah. Someday.
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