Forgotten Random Friday Observations

—There’s nothing funnier to a five-year-old (or seven-year-old or three-year-old) than a reference to excrement. Bonus giggles for scatological rhyme.

—I have written 15 pages on the script.

A Moment of Silence

The sling formerly known as Blue (2004)

My next-door neighbor is a new grandma (again). She’s keeping the wee one from time-to-time and asked me today about the baby sling I used to carry the Sonars in. She’d like to make one.

There are no new Sonars planned around here, and I’ve slowly given away most of our baby things as they’ve gotten bigger. The slings I have been unable to part with. I have three. Two that I used (one padded and one unpadded ring sling), and one that Partner used (a gigantic padded ring sling). I have pulled them out several times, thinking to give them away to someone who will use them, only to tear up and shove them back in the drawer.
Green and poufy (2000)
This morning though, I pulled them out and tossed them in the washing machine (they are dusty), thinking that I’d lend them. Neighbor could borrow them and I could help her figure out how to use them before she makes her own. I count this as growth.

When I pulled them out of the dryer (seriously, the padded one would take eight months to dry in 80% relative humidity), I found one lovely fluffy green one, one smooth technicolor one (my favorite in the heat down here), and the fragments of what used to be a light blue fluffy one.

The fabric, worn by years of wearing, washing, sitting in the sun on the back dash of the car, being spit-up on, pooped on, chewed on (no, not usually in that order), swam in, slept in, slept on, leaked on, sat on, wrapped around, dragged around… well, the fabric was finished, and came apart along the entire length of the sling.

Better in the washer than holding a babe, I say. But still, my heart flip-flopped a little bit when I thought of all the hours I toted the three babies around—each one regularly until they were at least 12 or 15 months old, and occasionally well up to and even past 2 years—in that faded blue piece of cloth.

None of the Sonars are babies anymore, none would fit in the sling, nor do I think I could heft them for very long even if they could. Still, like a fabric echo of the physical closeness of their babyhoods, I could hold that sling in my hands and remember physically what it was like. Could still smell, even after many washings and a layer of dust, what we smelled like, that breast-milky, warm-baby smell.

*sigh*

My melancholia lasted about 42 seconds, though, before I took out the seam ripper and started disassembling it. Wondering if I can take the fabric and make it into something else.

An echo of an echo.

Technicolor Wrap (2005)

A Calculus of Silly

Overheard:

Sonar X5: (gigglingly skeptical) That’s completely silly.

Sonar X7: (serious and thoughtful) Nothing is completely silly. Some things can approach complete silliness, but nothing is 100% silly.

Overweening Mama Pride

Sonar X7 won a first place ribbon in the school science fair today and earned a spot in the regional science fair in May.

Can I just say how adorable it was, the Sonar’s modest surprise and light-up-the face joy when the first place ribbon was announced. *big happy sigh*

He gets it from me. (annoying smugness)

For those of you who would point out that the genetics in question include a healthy donation from someone who once spent several years working on a Ph.D. in Biochemistry before oppressing the masses in public education I say (with a surprising lack of modesty and maturity). Pshaw. Though I was more mathy than sciencey, with at least a decade of math geekiness under my belt, I did earn a Biochemistry degree before switching allegiances to the humanities. Partner, bless his soul, experienced adult-onset geekiness. AND more than half of that heritable genetic material is from me. Seriously. Go look it up. Then brush your teeth.

Therapy, Phase One

In times of acute emotional distress, I tend to follow a fairly predictable recovery pattern. Phase One begins when the crying and plate-throwing has (mostly) stopped.* This is the phase in which I Make things.

Ok, I make things all the time, but Phase One usually involves a slightly maniacal construction of something new. (On rare occasions, the recovery of a long abandoned project occurs in cases when Phase One is prolongued).

So today, I made bandanas. And a cape. And I knit on Owl 2 (the colors of which were selected by Sonar X5 and which has been named Hedwig—go read the books). And I pondered buttons for Owl 1 (which is purple and grey, a birthday gift for a wee friend, and which has been named Errol by the Sonars, probably because he’s a bit squashy looking—again, go read the books). And there is a very good chance I will work on the abandoned socks for Partner.

I rationalize, of course, that the preponderance of birthdays we have among our family and friends here in the middle of March is justification enough of such a craft frenzy. Some of the bandanas are for pure whimsy, to be used locally by the Sonars for whatever a bandana can do (cape, mask, pirate scarf, apron, wee blanket, handkerchief, mini-toga, halter top, insert your own bandana use here). Two others are destined for a six-year-old friend, to be accompanied by a compass, flashlight, string, and bandaids for a gift inspired by The Dangerous Book for Boys and The Daring Book for Girls. Call it an adventure pack. The cape will be wrapped around Errol for environmentally friendly wrapping and surprise super-hero garb for a three-year-old friend.

Side note: When I mentioned last night that I was thinking of making bandanas, Sonar X7 said, “Hey, we can tie one around the end of a stick and run away from home now!!” Nearly killing the bandana project before it got off the ground.

Normally, I just think making things is fun. There is something very satisfying about knowing that I have used my hands to craft something fun or useful or interesting.

In times of stress, I find comfort in being a creator as opposed to a consumer or a destroyer. The practice of craft is a good analogy for the way I want to function socially and emotionally. And by taking fabric, or yarn or paper or glue and making something and pondering the idea of creating healthy connections and emotions among people, I find that I am able to calm myself from the inside out, to feel stronger and more stable and more able to fulfill my roles and responsibilities in a healthy, sane and satisfying way.

The craft doesn’t take me all the way though. At some point, when I am sitting in a puddle of fabric clippings and bits of thread and yarn, with glue in my hair, I will decide that I can no longer tolerate the mess.

Thus begins Phase Two, in which I clean with a slightly maniacal vengeance, thus exerting a sense of control and organization. Stressful experiences often feel outside the realm of our control. Another good analogy here. Cleaning and organizing the tangible objects that are around me gives me a sense of control over at least one part of my life. It has the added benefit of creating a serene space in which to contemplate my emotions. I often find that as I organize the stuff and sweep away the debris, that feelings start making sense, that ideas fall into line, and that I feel more calm. A clean house does not necessarily change the stressful issues themselves, but it does create a reserve inside me that feels healthy and strong. Plus, it’s one of the rare occasions in which our house is really and truly and fastidiously clean.

People are sometimes freaked out by both phases. Not the actions themselves, but the, uh, shall we say Enthusiasm (aka Single Minded Vengeance) with which I take on the creation and the cleaning. The Sonars seem to enjoy Phase One. No one likes Phase Two. But I reassure them, that the mama who doesn’t care whether the living room table is covered with ten gallons of K’Nex as long as none of them is on the floor to hurt her feet will return soon.

*No, I have not actually ever thrown plates, but I’ve wanted to. I’m really more of a slammer, which has, of occasion, resulted in broken things. Just this morning I happened to close the dishwasher in a particularly enthusiastic manner and managed to smash a glass.