That almost never happens
Today, as I was walking hand in hand with Owen to the county library, this older dude called out to us with a “Ma’am!” It was the tone usually reserved for “You dropped this!”
Instead he went on to say, “Enjoy this. This is going to end up being one of the best times of your life, walking hand in hand with your kid. The time goes by so fast. … I wish I had enjoyed it while it was happening.”
Now, normally this kind of thing is kind of presumptuous and annoying, strangers telling you how to feel. But today, he was on the money, this random guy. I really was enjoying it, and I really was appreciating the moment even as we were living it. Sun was shining, we were walking, everything was peaceful …
Oy. File this under “sappy crap,” eh?
I should crochet an utterly sincere, non-ironic tea cozy in protest
Edit: I don’t want to be an asshole. I want to be clear that I am not criticizing the article or the author or the artists profiled. I’m bitching about scenesters.
More of the c-word today.
So I haven’t been picking up the City Paper lately, but today something told me to look at the newstand this morning. “They’re Crafty” was the headline to change my mind today (as I was walking to work with a ball of yarn and a crochet hook in my bag, my neck wrapped in a handmade scarf).
Briefly: the article would like to remind us that the “Baltimore Craft Community” is thriving. Sweet! But I get the feeling they don’t mean at church bazaars, they mean the kind of indie craft that is Okay For Young People: you know, people with nose rings. Cool people. “Indie” people. Punk Rock Crafters, that sort of crowd.
Was anybody really concerned? Who could think that the indie-punk-DIY fad was fading already? I mean, I suppose there’s a chance that the hipsters and yippies have run out of yarn, or something, or moved on to woodworking, but I really don’t think so.
Though I was interested to see that there’s now a Charm City Craft Mafia (I remember thinking of starting one ages ago), my first reaction to the article was a big roll of the eyes. I think it’s because of my brief experience with some of Baltimore’s larger (not just craft) “indie scene.”
When I first moved here from Corn Town I just loved how crazy and artsy and liberal this city was. I thought it was quite refreshing to see a new aesthetic that actually had some weight and support behind it. But after a while, I found a sour taste in my mouth (and it wasn’t the homebrewed beer talking, either): aesthetic was the only thing. Not talent or passion or love of the arts, just whether or not you were “indie” enough.
It’s possible that I just happened to meet the wrong people, the nasty, puckered, nervous gatekeepers instead of the truly passionate. But that’s who I met. And boy, they did a nice job of changing my mind. I thought college was the time for posing hipper-than-thou (goddamn art majors), silly me, but apparently that’s just the training.
Anyway. My take, at first glance this morning was this: As far as I’m concerned the craft community is thriving, yes. But the WHOLE craft community. Even the ones who make things like pastel granny-square afghans or angels out of styrofoam and yarn. Even the ones who wear, say, generic maternity apparel and have shaggy, growing-out haircuts and no visible piercings (who, me?). People who don’t have the street cred and have outgrown caring about it.
To me, there’s value in anything handmade; it doesn’t have to be featured in a “knitty-gritty” sort of collection to suddenly become worthwhile.
He gets the lazy from me
So tell me. Wouldn’t you think that, by putting your toddler into a toddler bed — one that is easily accessible by ground, something about two feet high, if that — wouldn’t you think your toddler would be climbing out of it all night long? You would. You would totally think that.
And you would be totally wrong. Owen STILL hollers for me to come get him when he wakes up. It’s crazy! He can get in and out of that bed like a champ but yet he insists that his human rickshaw come cart his lazy toddler behind around.
What’s your favorite babywearing device?
This one is addressed to the ‘rents in the crowd:
I’m looking to possibly get a new sling or pouch or wrap for when the new baby comes in May, and I’m soliciting opinions. What’s your number-one all-time desert-island fave?
Feel free to post links in the comments, too. I’m hungry for that sort of thing.
Actually, I’m hungry for lots of sorts of things, but I’m guessing you knew that.
Supafine Admin: Comments Are Whack. *edited*
updated: I think I have fixed it.
Dunno why, but I have my suspicions. (Apparently it’s worse if you’re using Safari, so bear that in mind. I also think my lingering cocomment script is wreaking havoc.)
If the comments aren’t working for you, you can instead e-mail me at marybeth at supamb dot com.
Or you know what? You can e-mail me even if things ARE working for you. I like e-mail. It keeps me, you know, perky.
Twenty six weeks pregnant and other tales
It’s getting quite difficult to wear regular people shirts. They just don’t make Lycra strong enough to withstand this belly.
So. I’m, what, six and a half months along. Things are really starting to get uncomfortable. Whereas being five months pregnant was The Awesome, six point five months is The Suck. My belly is itchy, my back hurts, and I worry about Flipper — the bigger he gets, the worse things could go wrong, it seems. Oh, and the Braxton Hicks. Those are a real bitch this time around. And they’ve been going on for months already.
On the one hand I can’t believe I still have three months to go … and on the other hand I’m desperately afraid, somewhere deep down, that something will go wrong. I try not to think about it but I think many pregnant women fears the same thing, whether or not there’s a reason to feel that way.
In other news, it’s snowing. I really wasn’t expecting snow, and here it is, still coming down after three hours. I have a strong feeling the county is going to cancel school tomorrow. I only wish the newspaper biz gave snow days, too.
Sadly, I know all the words: Owen’s new favorite movie is Aladdin. We watch “blue genie song” and “Princess Ali Fwa Fwa”, on repeat. He doesn’t care for the rest of the movie but those two song’n’dance numbers, watch out. It’s gotten to the point where he will request those songs from Iain and I, randomly, throughout the day — and we comply, singing in parts. It’s quite silly.
The c-word: I love doing it and talking about it but I’m really starting to hate saying the word “craft.” I bought CRAFT magazine at Barnes and Noble the other day; Rachael and I went to the Crafter’s Cafe yesterday in Overlea; I’m listening to the Craftsanity Podcast series; and I have a whole folder in my newsreader that is titled, simply, Craft. It’s like, if you say “banana” enough times it starts to sound really, really strange — less a word and more an alien sound spoken by purple-pronged extra-terrestrials.
Nothing matches the warm bite of Shasta: In preparation for the certain upheaval that a second child will wreak on our finances, Iain and I are striving to make some reductions in expenses. And let me tell you, there is a reason that Shasta costs just 24 cents a can.
Speaking of drinks: I have been having a mad number of dreams about breastfeeding. Usually they are calamity/anxiety dreams, the equivalent of showing up to your algebra exam naked and without a calculator. Last night I dreamed that I got it right, though, and I felt so fucking proud when I woke up. It’s like, nipple confusion of my own: Why do I care so much whether or not I can do this with Kid 2? Why am I so determined to make it work this time? Owen was bottlefed after two weeks, and he turned out wonderfully; I have no moral objection to bottlefeeding whatsoever; and yet, I have spent several hours on kellymom.com already, trying to stuff my head full of knowledge for my next attempt. I don’t know why it’s so important to me, or why it feels like a test I have to pass, but it does.
When all else fails, have a cookie: So maybe we have Shasta in the house, and maybe I am going to admit that I stealthily dropped a bag of Nutty Buddies into our cart as well, and maybe I’m going to go eat them now — not all of them, just a healthy amount — and drink some milk while I read one of the new books we scored at Daedalus this morning. And maybe you are required to not judge me, because let’s face it, Nutty Buddies certainly do hit the spot sometimes.
I don’t even really like flip-flops
A new day has dawned Chez Supafine, and I have scrubbed off yesterday’s moodiness. Me and my smeary raccoon eyes are ready for the future.
Also: Whoever can motivate me to put down the laptop and sweep the kitchen floor wins a prize.
What. Else. Honestly, I just feel the urge to be writing something because I loathe leaving mopey emotional bits at the top of the page, especially when I am no longer mopey and emotional. It’s like having something between your toes. I don’t like it.
P.S. Tina Fey, please come over to my house so we can hang.
P.P.S. Also, your hair is pretty.
Paint it black
I am wearing eyeliner today. That’s a pretty good indicator that I feel like shit, because I seldom wear makeup (and you can tell, because it’s always inexpertly applied. I didn’t read enough Seventeen as a girl).
I’m going to go ahead and postulate that the reason I feel so crappy is because I had a very realistic dream last night that Iain was leaving me to be with another woman. This, after we had just bought a condo in a run-down 1960’s shopping mall! (Although, the twin beds should have been my first clue.)
I was oblivious until the editor of the local alt-weekly invited me to dinner in the cafeteria in the mall. That was just a cover for an elaborate intervention, in which he laid forth the evidence for Iain’s affair (with a friend I met through the internet, no less. The gall!). Iain sat across from us in the booth, ostensibly present to defend himself.
Only he didn’t, and that’s how I knew it was all true. Plus, after I stormed out of the 1960s shopping mall and returned to our condo an hour later, to pack my things and start the 400 mile trek to my sister’s house, Iain was stacking some boxes in the closet and said, “Don’t you leave me like that, right after saying you want to get married!” Which meant, of course, that in the brief time I, his wife, had been gone, nursing her wounds, he had invited his mistress over and withstood not only a proposal but a second huffy storm-out.
That’s about the time I chucked something very heavy at his head and then woke up.
I know that dreams are just dreams, either hopes manifested or fears realized, but they still stick with you, you know? I’m almost more hurt by Dream Iain, because Real Iain wouldn’t be so stupid as to do such a thing.
Also, I’m pregnant, so the tendency to feel fat, misshapen, unlovable and overly dramatic is just about the same as it is when you’re 14.
Hence the eyeliner and the bad attitude.
More nesting: The kids’ room
Iain and I worked very hard this weekend, painting and sewing and building and arranging. This is the room Owen will share with his new little brother (T minus … uh *counting* … about three months OMFG).
We went a little Amish on this place, opting to make things ourselves when we could. One exception is the rug, which I dropped $15 on at Ikea because the rag rug that I am working on — well, it turns out that braiding a rag rug by yourself is a motherloving BITCH. So who knows when that project will be completed. But the quilt, the pillows, the curtains, those I made. The bed and the shelves (and the customized closet shelves), those Iain made. A labor of cheerful love — and Owen helped! Such a kid!
He really loves his new bed. Sometimes he’ll just climb in it and lay down. Then he says something that sounds like “Mama Six Nephews?” which means, Mama sit next to you? [“you” meaning “me.” And “me” meaning “him”.] He falls asleep so easily there, because I can sit comfortably next to him and hold his hand at night.
There will be some more changes in a few months, when new baby is ready to lodge there as well — bringing back the crib, for example. But for now it’s Owen’s space, and we can all play dinosaurs there to our heart’s content.
More pix are on my flickr stream with the tag “kids’ room”. Click to see.
My Valentine’s Day present
Refinished rocking chair, age 27
Other people exchange jewelry, flowers, candy, stuffed teddy bears, negligee. I feel sorry for them.
My husband took apart, sanded, refinished, and put back together the rocking chair my own mother rocked me in when I was a baby. He left in some of the marks I made in the arms of the chair when I was a kid, rather than buff them out, because he knows I’d be heartbroken if they were gone. He repaired it to be sturdier and quieter than I ever remember it being. He used his own two hands and all his free time. And he knows how important it is to me that I be able to use this rocking chair with my own kids … so he finished it well in advance of May and set it up in the nursery, shiny and beautiful.
I tell you what, you keep your polyester lace and wilting roses. I wouldn’t trade this man for anything.
recent flickr
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my sewing tutorials
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