the spinning kind

So much going on.

Most of it good. Really good.

I love this season. The weather. The holidays. The happenings. 

There are lots of ways to dance and
to spin, sometimes it just starts my
feet first then my entire body, I am
spinning no one can see it but it is
happening. I am so glad to be alive,
I am so glad to be loving and loved.
Even if I were close to the finish, 
even if I were at my final breath, I
would be here to take a stand, bereft
of such astonishments, but for them.

If I were a Sufi for sure I would be
one of the spinning kind. 

- Mary Oliver, from her new collection(!), A Thousand Mornings

Never die, Mary Oliver. I simply won't allow it.

a lesson in melted wax

Inspired yet again by The Artful Parent, I decided to try to help George a little with his fine motor skills by way of sprinkling, a practice he frequently enjoys, mostly by sprinkling the rice out of his sensory bin onto the dining room floor. I so love all of TAP's "stained glass" activities and felt like our big dining room windows could use a little cheer, since the daylight is getting shorter and considerably less bright. More grey. Pretty, and a welcome change, to be honest, but cheer never hurts. 

We had some old Stockmar beeswax crayons that didn't mind sacrificing themselves for a good cause. If Nathan cared that I (possibly) ruined the parmesan-specific cheese grater, he hasn't said so. 

I had to stop myself from saying spread them out, now, George. Don't lump them all in a pile. Distribute them evenly, for godssakes, or all you'll get is a brown wax lake.

I wanted to say those things. I certainly thought them. I demonstrated my own sprinkling on my own small sheet of wax paper with perhaps a little too much zeal. I couldn't help myself; I'm bossy. I'm a perfectionist. The poor child comes by it honestly when he says with a frown, "But I'm not good at it!" Because I tell him it doesn't matter, that trying is the thing. That everyone is bad at all of it, to start. But I hate it, too, being not good. Alas. There his wax was, in piles. He took a nap and, with the baby in the Ergo, I placed his and mine next to one another between sheets of butcher paper and ironed. 

Mine is on the bottom, his on the top. My confetti, his painter's dropcloth. 

Mine boring, measured, neat. His messy, unpredictable, with bubbles and swirls and colors I didn't grate. Colors, actually, that I said to myself as I grated, I wished we had. An olive green would be nice. A sienna or a plum. Something to more accurately reflect the season. Beautiful.

By contrast, the carefully sprinkled colors on my mine became muted and dull, desaturated as they bled into the milky wax of the paper. I traced and cut triangles and sewed them together to make buntings. I kept the pieces of mine small, but cut George's generously to make a big, bold decoration for our Fall windows. A reminder to me: back off and let the kid do his thing. 

Pardon all the pictures (and the dirty windows), but it was a sight to behold. 

an autumn jacket (and a little something extra)

I've had this pattern sitting on the top of the pile for quite awhile, waiting until I didn't have to scale it to fit George. He's finally a true pattern size 2, and with a few alterations, I had visions of the perfect fall jacket. 

I'm a sucker for a peter pan collar, and the necessary changes were so easy -- lengthen the sleeves, turn the buttons into toggles. The clincher was a couple of yards of plummy quilted cotton I'd been saving for just the right occasion. I cut it out and decided against the collar, in favor of a generous hood, good for pulling over your knit cap for extra protection against the elements. I had some navy and white striped twill left over from making George the Oliver + S sailboat pants and lined the jacket with that, making it a little more masculine (though, I really consider plum to be a sort of neutral). 

Well, here's the thing. It turned out adorably and fits like a dream, but despite those facts, it's not exactly what I would call a hit. 

Alas. Maybe he'll warm up to it? I used some scraps from Nathan's beat-up old laptop bag to make the toggle patches and bought some navy bias tape and cording for the edges and button loops. It's a good crisp weather-weight, and I'm hoping it will fit him in the spring, as well, though that seems unlikely. 

I had plenty leftover, and another pattern on my mind, so I whipped up a little something for the new baby to wear come February. We were at a total loss, wardrobe-wise, with newborn George when it came time for those refreshing walks around the block immediately following the sequestered period post-birth. We bundled him up as best we could and wore him close, but I'd have liked to put him in something extra snuggly. 

God, do I hate that synthetic fleece, though. It was admittedly more effort to line the entire thing with cotton chenille, but worth it to know my poor kid won't be feeling the icky slick softness of what was formerly soda bottles. 

These pictures suck, by the way: no need to point it out. We've entered the part of the year when our house requires lamplight during the day and outside it starts looking like dusk while I'm fixing lunch.

There it is: cozy-soft and so freaking tiny. It boggles the mind that someone's stretched-out arms will fit inside those sleeves. 

Since I have such an enormous stash, all I had to buy was the bias tape and the cording to complete both the bunting and the jacket. I can't wait to see them both on my littles. And with any luck, at least one of said bundled-up littles won't be miserable.