More Clothes

I've got pictures of more of Elena's new clothes--a dress and a shirt. There's actually another shirt, but she took it and ran to shove it in her drawer so I don't have a picture.

Third Little Monkey

We dropped the mattress on James' crib, tonight, just in case he figured out how to pull up on stuff sometime soon. Ten minutes later...

Summer Wardrobe

I've decided to sew as much of Elena's summer clothes as I can. I hunted around online and found some really cute free patterns to try out, and Elena picked out some fabric from my stash. Ta-da! I did the whole thing in about two and a half hours.

Also, a friend found a super cute purse pattern that I wanted to make. I think it came out pretty good. It's not *technically* done, but I'm OK with it.

Thoughts on Progress

Through a discussion board on Ravelry, I found this article on work. It made me think a lot, especially on the things I spend my time on.

As much as I love being a mother, it's so hard to gauge how you're doing. You don't get progress reports or performance reviews. You don't get peer reviews, either, because everyone is terrified of finding out what everyone else will think. Every minor setback makes you question your entire operation. Even outward signs of growth mask the quality of the real product. It's a work that spans a lifetime, but only a small portion is actually under your control.

It's no wonder I retreat into my crafts--perhaps too much. No matter how frustrating it is to rip out five rows of cables, I can reknit it and move on in an afternoon. No matter how trying to the patience a single row comprised of a thousand stitches of sewing-thread-thin yarn in a complex lace pattern can be, I can see the pattern forming and find pleasure with each repeat added. No matter how fiddly the pleats on the front of my new purse are, I know that I can rip out the basting and do it again. And if it just won't cooperate, even after seven or eight honest tries, I have no guilt in chucking the whole thing and starting anew with a different fabric or pattern. Ink stains on my hands become a badge of honor as I look with pride at the dozen cards or gift tags before me. What was once nothing more than a scrap of fabric and a pile if thread morphs into a Christmas stocking embroidered with beautifully shaded pine trees or angel wings. There is real, tangible progress in these things. I can measure my life by gifts given, dresses worn out through constant wearing, or replacing my favorite pair of lacy knee-high stockings one more time.

This is not to say that I can replace my job with my hobbies. I try to bring them together as much as possible, letting my kids pick the project and colors for their friends' younger siblings' gifts and showing them how it is made and the progress that's made, but that doesn't resolve my need to find progress in my everyday endeavors. True, my daughter was just starting to sound out words, six months ago, and can now read any Dr. Seuss book you set her all by herself, but that's hard to remember when I'm changing my tenth diaper of the day and struggling to decide what dinner will be.

So, as my personal request to everyone who knows a parent, let them know what they're doing right. Tell them how sweetly their child said "thank you" to you. Tell them how their child helped clean up someone else's mess without complaint. Tell them about the progress their child--and therefore they--have made. Trust me, they're desperate to know.

Mommy Day

Flash back to last year--the crying, the sullen apologies, hiding so no one can see my disappointment. I promised myself I wouldn't get worked up again, but I didn't think I would need to test that resolve, either. Once again, though, when it came time to sing she flatly refused to go. I sensed a meltdown--on my part--and I did some quick thinking. I asked if she wanted to sit on my lap and sing, and she said yes. It might have worked better that way, though, because I could actually hear her voice. She didn't know all the words, but her voice is so sweet and pure. I want to remember that and hold it in my heart forever.

I've been thinking a lot about my babies, lately, and how big they're getting. I was looking for the swimsuits, on Friday, and found Elena's Ariel suit from 2 years ago. It looks so tiny, compared to how big she is, now. She loves Ariel, too. Sure, she has a "Belle Dress" that I made her, but it's Ariel that she pretends to be and draws pictures of. It's a shame she doesn't fit her mermaid swimsuit, now that she's decided she's a mermaid.

Joseph meanwhile, has this love/hate thing going with me that every mother of a two-year-old knows. He doesn't want to do what I ask him to, but still loves to help and is always in my business. He'll ignore me for hours on end while playing with his sister, but won't let me leave the house with out either following me or throwing a massive tantrum.

James, my tiny boy, is sweet and patient. He's the only one to be both old enough to be interested in baby toys and immobile enough to actually play with them. The same goes for the jumper, which he figured out how to use, this weekend. I could do without the biting, though. Boy does he ever put on the impressive pout when I tell him not to bite.