On Normalcy

I'm 37 weeks along today. Full term - which means the baby could be born any day.

It's odd knowing that at some point in the next 3 to 5 weeks my body will go through something over which I have no control. No matter how many books I've read or classes I've been to, I don't know how it will feel and, assuming all goes as it should, I don't know when it will happen. I can't pencil it into the calendar and I can't make a perfect plan for how it will all go down.

I watched an episode of Dexter last weekend and, at the end, as the main character sat with his girlfriend at dinner, they concurred that they wanted the same thing out of life: to be normal.

At first it struck me as rather unambitious - the desire to be normal. But this past week has been one of anything but normal. I've had friends faced with extraordinary events, seen things that I never thought could happen and even something as silly as the weather - with tornadoes one week and snow flurries the next - has been out-of-the-norm.

It's made me realize that normal is really underrated.

For a good part of my pregnancy I've wanted things to be anything but normal. At first I didn't take pictures because I thought I looked fat or because I knew I didn't have the time or tools to make the pictures look perfect. Most recently, I've put off sharing the nursery because I haven't had time to attend to the tiny finishing details. And, for almost every day over the past week, I've spent my evenings stressed out because I know the baby could arrive any day and our house isn't Martha-Stewart-style organized.

But today I realized that, even if I had all of the time in the world, I'd never get things perfect and, even if I could, I don't know if I'd want to.

There's something to be said for normal - for sitting on the couch with my husband and discussing our day while he rubs my feet instead of spending the evening running around crazy, scrubbing floors or organizing drawers. Having a normal pregnancy thus far has been a blessing and I'm lucky to still feel great. And, there's nothing I love more than my completely normal house, family and friends.

That's not to say that there aren't things that I find extraordinary about my life or that I don't have reasons for thinking that my friends and family are better than most but, on paper, I live a pretty darn normal existence and for that I'm thankful. I'm happy to be normal and I, too, want little more than to continue to be normal for a long time to come.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

My plan to make all of the gifts for my holiday gift exchanges was well intentioned and realistic... were it not for all of the other things that come along with the holidays.

It's the appetizer making, cookie baking, cocktail party attending, concert going and, of course, shopping, that seemed to get in the way of the thing I needed to be doing: sewing.

Thankfully I managed to find some time over the weekend and, as I slaved away in my craft room, I couldn't help but think about the holidays - how we all look forward to them, how we welcome the break from the routine. But, it seems that we all overextend ourselves during this time - making sure our decorations are just right, we have the perfect present for everyone on our list, and that we attend all of the various events to which we're invited. By the time January rolls around, we're frazzled from travel, exhausted from over-booked schedules and bloated from a season of holiday-variety gluttony. We return to our routines in dire need of another holiday.

Yet we do it every year. In my family's case, in addition to all of the rest of the usual, the holidays mean putting up the totally tacky, totally overdone light display, pulling out handmade stockings, cooking a huge Polish meal for Christmas Eve, and spending lots of time with friends and family. And, truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Some of my fondest memories are of the holiday season and, as time so often has the funny propensity to do, when I think of all of those memories, it's only the good stuff that sticks in my mind. I forget how I spent 8 hours in the kitchen - working until my back cramped and feet ached - preparing homemade pierogies, kluski, chruschici - but vividly remember sitting around the table on Christmas Eve recouting the year, enjoying good wine and food, and enjoying each other's company.


I know that when I think back on this year, I won't remember the stress I felt while sitting at my sewing machine all day, cursing every upcoming holiday gift exchange but I will think back upon how much people enjoyed their gifts - how my girlfriends, in true white-elephant fashion, fought over the sushi print apron or how I created the most adorable present for my secret santa.

Although each year I promise I won't do as much, in the end, I know I will. Because, ultimately, it is the most wonderful time of the year.

Honestly

I had a friend who lives in Florida email me today - she'd just heard the news of our impending arrival and insisted that I keep her updated with photos.

I didn't have the heart to write back and tell her that she probably won't be getting any photos.

Maybe it's because I'm always the one behind the camera - that it's too hard to direct my husband to shoot pictures so that they come out the way I have them set-up in my mind. Or that I'm too lazy to set up the tripod and use the timer.

Or because our camera is broken and our memory card is corrupted - and I don't have the patience to go through the 20 steps necessary to take and dump one photo.

But truthfully I've got to believe the main reason why I haven't taken a single pregnancy photo is because I hate the way I look.

I broke out the maternity clothes yesterday. 15 weeks, that's got to be one for the record books. I never thought I'd have to wear maternity clothes at 15 weeks - the time in my pregnancy when my friend Miki was still bragging about fitting into her size 2 designer jeans, my size 8 pants were cutting off circulation to my lower extremities.

I did a fashion show for my husband yesterday - let him know the kind of sexy he had to look forward to for the next 6 months; the pulled-up-to-beneath-your-boobs, spandex-patch-in-the-front, huge-elastic-waistband kind of hot. He thinks it's cute - I, however, think it's hideous.

People who didn't know I was pregnant until now have started to ask. "When are you expecting?" they say and, although I'm tempted to reply, "Expecting what?" instead I say, "Not for a while - way too far off to be showing this much."

Those who already knew about the baby have also started to comment. "Oh you're getting so big!" they exclaim, as if it's a complement. To some women it might be - to me it's the equivalent of my husband telling me my ass looks fat in my favorite jeans.

I hate the stupid pregnancy t-shirts with sayings like, "Yes, I'm pregnant!" or "Baby". I hate going shopping and seeing all of the cute fall fashions as I make my way to the maternity section, where everything is loose and over-sized. I hate being told that I'm going to have to give up my 4-inch heels. And I hate people commenting on the continual expansion of my waistline.

I knew I wouldn't be one of those people who talks about being pregnant every minute of the day and I've always sworn that, although I know my life will change, I won't let this baby to change who I am. Never say never but I didn't enjoy hanging out with pregnant women or new moms before I got pregnant, I don't enjoy it now that I am pregnant and I don't expect it change my mind on the topic anytime soon. I doubt I'll ever be one of those pregnant women who think that they're so special and that somehow they're entitled to something just by virtue of the fact that they're pregnant.

But, I did think that I'd be sentimental - the kind of woman who takes pictures every month to document her growing belly and who keeps journals of all of the funny, insightful and touching moments over the course of the 9 month process.

Apparently things aren't at all what I expected.

During the first trimester, I didn't have any morning sickness and I didn't fall asleep on the couch the minute I got home from work as everyone insisted I would. I still crave all of the things I can't have (wine, strong dark coffee, unpasteurized cheese, lox and sushi) - unlike all of my friends who insisted I wouldn't want any of those things - that the sight or idea of them would make me nauseous - while I was pregnant. Quite honestly, I find pregnancy to be much like every day life - except for the fact that I'm fat.

And I find it difficult to get riled up over that.

I know I should get excited about my growing midsection - it's been a long time coming and I should be grateful that it's finally here, without shots, pills or other medical procedures. The baby is about 4 inches long now and, according to one of my email newsletters, if I were to shine a flashlight on my belly, the baby would be able to sense the light and move to the other side of my uterus. It's hard to believe (and also pretty cool) that I'm growing that inside of me - and I guess that a big belly and ugly clothes are a small price to pay for the ultimate reward. Just give me some time to warm up to the idea of documenting it on a memory card.

The Joy of Simplicity

Last weekend I went 'home' for a bridal shower for one of my high school friends. It's funny how, no matter how long I've been gone, or the fact that I've lived away almost as many years as I lived there, there's something in me that thinks of Ft. Lauderdale as home. It was great to see my family and to catch up with friends who have, like me, scattered throughout the country. It's always great to be around those people who know you the best - the people with whom you can be yourself and with whom you can laugh about your feathered hair, bad judgment in boyfriends or simply memories of times that feel like forever ago.

For what was probably the first time in my life, I decided I was going to be prepared for this shower. A few weeks before the shower I logged on to Wedding Channel. I had my plan: order the gift, have it shipped to my parents' house in Ft. Lauderdale and take it to the shower. Easy right?

Not so fast. No registries under her name on Wedding Channel. So I searched everywhere else. Target? No. Linens N Things? Nothing. Bed Bath & Beyond? Nada.

Turns out my friend - being the great person she is - hasn't registered intentionally. She'd rather people spend their money on coming to her wedding - to be there to celebrate with her and her new husband, rather than on some trinket that will sit in their kitchen.

That's fine. I'm creative - I can make her a gift, I decided. After giving it some thought I decided on the perfect gift: Sublime Stitching embroidered kitchen towels. For bonus points I'd work their names and wedding date into the design.

Naturally, in true Robin fashion, two days before the shower, I hadn't even started the gift. But, determined to finish a handmade gift before the shower, I called an audible. I threw some of my favorite fabric in my bag and thanked the lord baby Jesus that my mom has the same sewing machine as I do.

A few months ago I bought Amy Karol's book. Much like Amy Butler's book, it took me a while to break down and buy it and, I'm almost embarrassed to admit why. While I know that Project Runway may not be the next entry on my sewing resume, I do know my way around a sewing machine and I worried that the book might be too elementary for me - that the projects would be boring, things for which I don't need instructions or patterns.

But, in a fit of boredom one afternoon, I broke down. And, I'm glad I did. The projects are pretty simple but they're so darn fun.

Sometimes it's better to not have to think - to be able to have the measuring and experimenting done for you. To be able to just pick up something and do it - instead of having to figure out how to do it, scratching your head at each step along the way. This weekend was one of those times. Within 2 hours - start to finish - I had an adorable apron and, complements of Denyse Schmidt's instruction in her equally great book, a matching oven mitt. A perfect gift for a dear friend in record time.

Now if only I could find a way to get the bride to cook...

Falling Behind

I've always been one to bit of more than I can chew, burn the candle at both ends, put too much on my plate - whatever idiom you choose to use for someone who tries to do too much, chances are it applies to me.

It's 9:00 pm and as I sit here frustrated; although I realize that I probably couldn't ever accomplish everything on my overly-ambitious to-do lists, even if weekends were 4 days long, I'm angry with myself for not being able to accomplish more.

Of the things on my list: packing up a custom order dress for my friend Daniella and putting together some fabric samples for a very sweet, very patient woman who has asked me to help design a crib skirt for her baby. Yet, here I sit, at 9 pm, exhausted after putting in a long day at the office, cooking dinner, checking email and trying to squeeze in a little exercise.

I have great visions of what I want to do for our first child - of the scrapbook pages I'll make, the clothing I'll sew, the super cool projects that will decorate the baby's room. But, I wonder if I'll ever get around to all of it.

I'd like to blame it on the baby - to think that my lack of energy is the result of this thing growing inside of me - but quite honestly, I can't think of a single period in my life in which I haven't felt like I was behind the proverbial 8-ball. Perhaps I thrive on this type of self-applied pressure - maybe it's my own form of motivation. But, damn, can it get exhausting.

I'm always amazed by those women - you know the ones I'm talking about. The ones who manage to put their photos in albums, complete scrapbook pages before the event being memorialized is over a year old, manage to cook, bake and garden, hit the gym every day and find time to write about it. Anyone know their secret?

Moving On

"Are you folks enjoying my hotel?"

We stood there in the elevator - me, my husband and our friends Jeanine and James. My husband's band played earlier that night at the House of Blues and we'd spent the hours after the show lingering in the posh Foundation Room, sipping cocktails and toasting James' thirtieth birthday.

By the time we made it across the street to the hotel, it was well past 2 am - our eyes blurry from the late hour and a night filled with the type of jokes that push you to tears.

So, when the question was posed to us, we stood there in shock. I wish I could remember what we said. I'm sure one of us mumbled something and that we all quickly stepped out of the elevator. But I do clearly remember what happened when the doors closed after us - we all stood there in disbelief, with eyes that asked, "Was that really??" After all, it's not ever day you meet Dan Ackroyd in the Chicago House of Blues Hotel elevator at 2:30 in the morning.

During a break in my schedule during my last trip to Chicago, I had to visit Bin 36 - one of my favorite places to go during my frequent trips to Chicago. Even though I knew I couldn't indulge in either of my passions given the growing bean in my belly, I still wanted to visit a familiar place, a place where I've shared long afternoons over wine flights and cheese plates.

I was on the phone with my husband, chatting about my day, as I made my way down Dearborn, when I saw the sign. "They changed the name of the House of Blues Hotel," I exclaimed. We'd known that the House of Blues Hotel and the Loews hotel group were parting ways so I can't say the name change was surprising but what I saw when I made my way to the hotel and up the stairs, was a complete shock.

Gone was the huge pink chair that sat outside, the huge golden Buddha that greeted visitors in the lobby, and the funky decor. The bold colors were replaced with white and the decor lacked any of the originality that excited me so much back in 1998 when I visited for the first time.

My heart sunk and tears welled in my eyes. I felt as though I'd lost a good friend. I recounted every change with my husband on the line and could sense that his disappointment mirrored mine - we'd shared many, many memories at the House of Blues hotel. Of the cities we travel to together, Chicago is by far the most frequent and we've never stayed anywhere other than the House of Blues Hotel. I felt as though so many of our memories were wiped away with a few coats of paint and some new furniture.

It made me wish I'd said more on that night so many years ago - that I'd said how much I loved that hotel. That I'd mentioned how it was my first introduction to Chicago so many years ago and how I thought it represented so much of what I love about Chicago: energy, fun, hospitality. I wish I'd spoken of the memories shared at that hotel - of how I loved to see the faces of friends and family when the discovered the gem of a place, with it's Howard Finster artwork, terrazzo sinks and bottle cap phone. How we'd ushered in many special first trips, big birthdays and new years in that place and how I couldn't think of a better place to have spent each occasion. It was something unique - with it's own character - words almost never used in association with something as generic and sterile as a hotel. I wish I'd gushed about how great the House of Blues Hotel was and how much it meant to me.

I doubt any of that would have changed things; nevertheless, I feel compelled to say it now. Dan, I did enjoy your hotel - thanks for the memories.

Getting Back that Swing

Last night I plugged in my iPod, put in my favorite playlist an got to work on a special order blanket. Again, while slip-stitching the edge of the blanket, as Joni Mitchell sang about a river and the Counting Crows sang about Elisabeth, I was calm, relaxed.

While I took photos of the blanket, I belted out 'Midnight Train to Georgia' with Gladys. I didn't care about how I sounded - it felt good to play, to be myself. Many guilty pleasures - songs that I wouldn't ever admit to liking or owning, let alone play around others - streamed from my iPod. Each time they brought a smile to my face and most times I sang along.

It's been a while since I sewed but it felt really, really good to get back into the swing of things. At the end of the night I tidied up my room, turned off all of the lights except for my parasol lamp and sat there. One of my favorite songs played in the background and I felt better than I have in ages. It's been way too long since I spent some time doing things for myself - since I indulged in activities that I love to do. And life it too short to spend all of your time organizing the basement or cleaning the windows.

It feels good to be back.

Be Careful What You Wish For

So, we're in.

My friend Paige and I will be hanging out and hocking our stuff at the East Atlanta Strut on September 15th.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that all of the projects I've started must be put on hold. My old vinyl gym bag - a Clinique freebie that has served me well for almost 8 years - is finally falling apart and, although I'm so close to finishing a new bag out of pink oilcloth printed with oranges, with yellow gingham oilcloth straps, I'm going to have to put it aside. Amy Butler Barcelona Skirt? On hold. Amy Butler Weekender Travel Bag that I want to make so badly it makes me hurt? In the 'once I get done with the show' queue. Some trapeze-style blouses and flowery, airy dresses? By the time I get to them they'll be out of fashion. And the list of presents I need to make for friends who continue to pop out babies a seemingly daily rate? I've given up.

All is not lost though. This show really has me thinking. I've pulled out lots of great fabric and I'm really excited to experiment - to try some of the things I've been jotting down on paper for weeks and others that have come to me in the past few days as the proverbial creative juices have started to flow again.

It's also a good lesson in discipline: to rebuild my inventory and finish some of the staples - always a hard thing to do when faced with the exciting prospect of designing something new.

It's all so great, yet equally challenging: a recurring theme in my life lately. But I've never been one to shy away from a good challenge. Time to roll up the sleeves, put on the gloves, and dig in.

An Open Letter to My Favorite Kind of Law Enforcement: The Police

Dear Stew, Gord-o and Andy,

First, let me start with an apology.

I know that Florida seems like it has a lot going for it - great weather, nice beaches. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't love 360 days of sun each year? But, as you probably discovered on a Wednesday night a few weeks ago, the thing that really makes Florida unbearable isn't the heat or the hurricanes - it's the people.

I'm sorry that people didn't seem excited to be there - it had no reflection on the night. But more on that later... I think that the attitude of the people can be summed up by my experience after the show. My husband and I decided to wait out the traffic by having a drink at the hotel next to the arena: we found a table, sat down and waited for a waitress. No such luck - no waitresses. After making my way to the massive bar and seeing that there were only two female bartenders working the hoards of people who had the same idea we did, I took my place and reminded myself to be patient. And, for 20 minutes I waited amongst drunk guys who, while sloshing their jack and coke all over my white Ann Taylor blouse, pushed their way to the front of the bar, shouting out orders of 10 - 12 drinks each. "Oh wait - I need two more Cosmopolitans!" they'd yell at the bartender after she'd already printed their tab. Yeah, that kind of fun.

I was ignored on the bartender's first pass down the bar, but when I was ignored the second time (after waiting 20 minutes of dealing with the kind of jerks that I'm sure are present all over but who seem to come out in droves in the great Sunshine State) I had enough - we left. Too bad too because I would have given the bartender a much better tip than the 2% left by the aforementioned drunken meatheads. (I mean, seriously, who leaves a $1 tip on a $50 bar tab?) But I digress... At least now you know your audience.

But enough on the people because the show? Because the show... Ah the show.

For years I've listened to my husband wax poetic about what he'd do if the police ever got back together. As we sat in our seats that night, it was hard to believe the 'if' had become a reality.

Andy, although you might want to rethink the green in-ear monitors (they looked like big jalepenos stuck in your ear), you're still amazing. Great solos without being over done - not too short, not too long.

Stewart, you're a man after my husband's heart. When you brought out that big set of toys and ran around on the stage playing them all, you made my husband's jaw drop. Every so often I'd get an elbow nudge, "Check it out - he's playing the tympani!" my husband would exclaim.

And Sting, you could make a fortune bottling water from that fountain of youth you must have in your backyard - I know 20 year olds that don't look as good as you. Seriously, it's almost unnatural. And although you had to bring 'So Lonely' down a few steps (didn't think we'd notice, did you?), you sounded great.

Sure the set list was almost identical to the other shows you've played - so much so that my husband was accurately able to scream out the name of each song before it started but I honestly didn't care. I screamed until I lost my voice, I jumped up and down until I was soaked with sweat and I sang along to songs that brought back so many amazing memories - while also creating new memories that I'm sure I'll treasure for a long, long time.

Even better, I saw my husband in a state that - in our almost 10 years together - I've never seen. After the concert I realized that I've never seen my stoic husband so excited - not even at our own wedding. He smiled for the entire 2 hour show and was more excited than a kid at Christmas - I know this might not sound like much but, trust me, if you knew my husband you'd be rushing to check the temperature in hell.

And as for the encore - remember the rotten people - who, even in light of the amazing show that turned even my hardened husband into a singing-along, jumping-up-and-down, screaming fan, the "fans" that stood there, barely clapping or showing any emotion? They didn't leave. For the first-time in my concert-going history, I stood there in awe as not a single person left. The arena remained packed - full of people yearning for more.

By the end of the concert I was convinced that if we ever have children, we'll throw all of your names in a bucket and pull a winner. Hell, even if my kid wound up being dubbed Gordon Sting, at least I'd know he was in good company.

Thanks guys.

-Robin

On Friends and Fiestaware

A few weeks ago I met up with a friend who decided to travel to the big A-T-L for her and her fiancee's birthdays. Over 3 years have passed since we'd seen each other but, as so often happens with good friends, within mere seconds we were back to talking as though no time had passed. It was wonderful - gabbing about jobs, wedding planning and running (she was my long-distance training buddy for the marathon I ran before my 30th birthday). But there was also a tiny part of me that was so very sad - I realized just how much I missed her in my life and how much time had gone by without seeing this good friend with whom I share so much in common.

At some point in the evening the discussion turned to one of my favorite things in the world: Fiestaware. I fell in love with the multi-colored plates years ago when a neighbor ordered them through the JC Penney catalog; I watched as she opened the boxes and pulled out color after color: pink, yellow, blue, orange... I was smitten.

When registering for our wedding, I knew I wanted Fiestaware but, my husband wasn't so keen on the idea of multi-colored plates. We went back and forth - first two colors, then three and finally we settled on four colors: persimmon, cobalt, sunflower and white.

I was excited to finally get my Fiestaware but felt somewhat incomplete with only getting four colors - it is my firm belief that, although awesome even in four colors, Fiestaware really shines when there are tons of colors littering the cabinet. I yearned for the additional colors. "Look baby, Fiestaware! See how great the colors look all stacked up together?" I'd say when seeing it stacked up at restaurants. And although I pined for all of the colors, it was the turquoise that I wanted with a burning desire.

The turquoise Fiestware is that perfect shade of turquoise - it reminds me of my grandparents' kitchen complete with original (which with the latest trends could now be dubbed 'retro') 50's style cabinets and terrazzo floor. I kick myself for not getting it as part of our registry and the turquoise dishes have remained on my wish list for just about every occasion for the past 5-plus years.

While dining with my friend Anna, we discussed her choice of colors: tangerine instead of persimmon, no rose, and definitely my beloved turquoise. "By the way, they're retiring the turquoise," she commented in passing.

My throat began to close up and my mouth became dry. "What? Retiring? Turquoise?"

I reached for my blackberry eager to verify this rumor and, if proven valid, to immediately order my dishes. Unable to find any discussion of my favorite color being discontinued, I gave up on adding one more color to my collection - that is, until a few weeks later.

Last weekend, I played on my laptop while my husband watched SportsCenter for the 30th time that day. Hearing the click-click of my keys, my husband looked up to take a momentary break from the trance of Stuart. "Did you order that turquoise Fiestaware yet? You'd better get it now before it's discontinued." And that was it - back to his daily Stuart sermon.

I practically dove for my wallet and, before the next commercial break, my fingers, so adept at typing in the Homer Laughlin website address, had already ordered my very own 16-piece set.

And to you Anna - I'm eternally grateful.

On forgetfulness

Last year I spent every spare minute of November sewing. After work? Sewing. Between bites of turkey? Sewing. While everyone else was at the mall for Black Friday? Sewing. My back hurt, my arms hurt, my mind hurt. But, I grew excited as I watched as the bedding sets, burp cloths and blankets pile up and, for the first time since I started my tiny little business, I had a serious inventory stash.

Then, on the first weekend in December, for a few hours on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, I set up my table in a perfect sunny corner, put on a smile and manned my craft booth. And, although I'd been up until 4 am the night before, the thrill of being surrounded by other crafty people gave me the adrenaline I needed to get through the long day.

I had a great day but, at the end of it, I swore I'd never do another craft fair. The business was great and the experience was exhilarating but trying to manage a more-than full-time job and prepare for a show was just too much.

When I ran my first marathon a few years ago I made the same proclamation. I spent a good portion of the last 5 miles of my marathon pissing and moaning repeatedly to my husband. "This is asinine - why in the world am I doing this?" I groaned between strains of "I don't ever need to do this again. NEVER. EVER. AGAIN."

But, when I hit mile 26, the tears started flowing. I realize that's not much coming from me - the woman who cries at everything - but there was something about the experience that was completely awe inspiring. It was miserable and awful yet also amazing - all at once.

When talking with my neighbor a few days after the marathon about which race I'd do next, she made the perfect comparison: running a marathon is like childbirth. When you're in the middle of it, you're so miserable that you swear you'll never do it again but, once it's over and you've forgotten about the pain, you realize it's one of the most amazing experiences. Six to nine months later, you're ready to do it again.

Apparently craft fairs are the same way.

I'd love to blame my friend Paige (an amazing jewelry designer with whom I will hopefully share a booth) for what may be the end of all free time between now and September but, truth be told, applying for the East Atlanta Village Strut Artists' Market was all my idea - she willingly went along when I insisted I needed a booth-mate to help share in the pulling-your-hair-out will-it-ever-get-done preparation and to keep me company during a fun but long day of booth-manning.

It's a fun, laid-back festival and one of my favorites (which is quite a feat considering I live in a town where just about every neighborhood has a festival). I just hope that if we get in, I can channel some of that laid-back East Atlanta vibe.

Wish us luck!

A Welcome Note

Little Baby W,

Just in case they forget to tell you, before you were born, your parents called you ‘Cletus the Fetus’. I know it doesn’t have the ring of ‘Cletus the Fetus’ but I always thought of you as Baby W - I like that the W can stand for so many great words: wonderful, wishful, whimsical.

Months ago, when you were an itty bitty thing, your mom asked if I would make your bedding. She knew you’d be special and wanted to be sure that everything that surrounds you – especially the first thing you see when you wake and the last thing you see before you drift off into dreamland – is just right. As we scoured through fabric she knew what she wanted the minute she saw it: Elvis.

It might take a while to learn that not everyone is lucky enough to grow up with an Elvis crib bumper but once you do, you’ll know what a great set of parents you’ve got. They’ve spent so much time planning for you and are so eager to let you be who you are – not some cookie-cutter kid who goes with the flow. And that, Baby W, is way cool.

Old people like me like me sometimes have odd beliefs. Mine is that all of the thoughts you have while making handmade things are transferred to those items.

While making your bedding, I heard a song by David Ryan Harris – a song offering his son wisdom that sometimes brings tears to my eyes (if you’re a girl one day you’ll understand this; if you’re a boy, you’ll learn that crying is one of those things us girls sometimes do). When I heard that song, I said a little prayer that it, in addition to lots of love and tons of ambition, was in some strange, crazy-old-woman-who-believes-in-weird-things way transferred to your bedding.

Welcome to the world Baby W. You’re very, very loved.

-Robin

Life Lessons

Yesterday, I sat down to do some finishing hand-stitching on an item someone purchased from my Etsy store. As I started, I sighed and thought, Man, I hate hand stitching.

Maybe it’s the fast-paced environment in which I spend most of my days – the environment that would frown-upon the fact that it takes 15 minutes - 1/8 of the total time spent on the project – to do something that makes up a very, very small part of the whole. Or maybe it’s my perfectionistic nature – the way I feel a need for things to turn out neater, more exact than the human hand can produce. Whatever the reason, I always dread the hand-stitching or finishing stitching that often comes at the end of a project.

As part of my middle school home economics class we were assigned a hand-embroidery project. After trying the embroidery a few times and failing to get the stitches exactly even, I gave up. I whipped out my mom's sewing machine, machine-stitched the felt patches and was done in 5 minutes.

When I took my project to class the next day I was proud: my surfboard pillow with its machine-stitched felt stripes looked nicer than most of the projects there. Little did I know I’d cheated myself – the project wasn’t about making a perfect, pretty pillow, it was about learning various hand-embroidery stitches. I'm sure I made up some flimsy excuse as to why I didn't follow directions, but it didn't matter - I failed the project.

One of the women who taught me to knit was very spiritual. She impressed upon me the idea that knitting carries emotions - that whatever you're thinking about when you're knitting is woven into the fabric as you knit it. "Never knit while you're angry," she said "unless you're knitting something for your ex-husband!"

I thought of those words as I began to stitch up the side of the dress. A wave of guilt washed over me. I was making a dress for a little girl – a sweet little girl who will wear it while she runs through the yard or plays on the beach – and although the whole ‘incorporating emotions into your work’ thing might be a crock, I wanted to be sure my dress brought joy to someone’s life, not negative energy.

So, I relaxed and tried to enjoy the slip stitch. And a funny thing happened. I didn’t hear anything: no voices in my head reminding me of all of the things I had to do, no phones ringing, no new email reminders, nothing. It was peaceful and, for the first time in a very, very long time, I was relaxed. Not that ‘the minute I step out of this massage and shell over $70 my shoulders will tense up again’ or ‘yoga class was great but what the hell am I going to cook for dinner now’ relaxed – a very calming, inner peace kind of relaxation.

I don’t expect to trade in my sewing machine for an embroidery hoop anytime soon but it is nice to know that next time I might actually look forward to those few moments of hand-stitching.