It was her fault again. When I saw it I thought “Oh my. Lucky little Lady A for getting one of those”.
But it wouldn’t go away. It sat in my subconscious all this time gnawing away like a dog on a bone: “make one. make two. make it. make it. make it.” I would wake up and think about it. I would consider the pros and cons of making one, until I saw my son shivering coming down the stairs one morning. Then I knew *narrows eyes* I had to do it.
The crafting mojo had me in its grip. I was powerless to resist.
That very day I went to market to find the material and trimmings; there were only two requirements – it had to be cheap and non-pink. The bonus is I found lovely, medium weight, WARM material in my son’s favourite colour. Orange. Not too sure about the puke shade orange of this. But orange none-the-less.
The ‘trimmings and buttons’ lady’s stall was shut, so I created carnage in my stash finding ric rac (not too girly), some vintage woven ribbon and two sets of vintage buttons. The blue ones I have vague memories of being off something I remember in the family when I was about four, perhaps another robe – pure nylon and so flammable I must remember to keep it out of direct sunlight, THAT’S how old they are… lush…
So using Simplicity 5103 I set about making the dressing gowns/robes.
I totally killed the collar. Twice. Which confuses me. I have made the same collar countless times. But this time? Like a chimpanzee with an origami kit – not a clue. But shaped into something get-away-able … ish.
As I ripped the seams out my two year old siddled up to me and sat down looking at me full in the face like I was stupid, like only a two year old can, and asked, “Jim Jams, Mama?”. I said “yes, kinda”. He asked again, “Jim Jams, Mama??”. “Yes. Jim Jams”. Very satisfied he asked, “*MY* Jim Jams, Mama??” and I think at this point I might have even scooped him up and bit him and kissed him all over. His fault. Too cute masha’allah.
A little later I tried the gown on him and he ran to the door shouting, “DADA – LOOK!” and when his Dad praised him, he patted himself on the chest, raised an inch in height and walked off proudly. My heart melted and I realised: THIS is why I make stuff. You just don’t get that heart melt with shop-bought stuff. My son’s pride and happiness was a real winner.
As imperfect as they are; as lurid are they seem, this is what it’s all about: making your child walk an inch higher, your child *crying* and throwing a tantrum when asked to take it off, your child being wrapped in warmth that you have made, your child making your heart melt. That’s why I do it. That’s why I make puke coloured, mangled gowns.