Around here, we sew in twos. Sewing in twos means a balancing act of one for you and one for you too.  Each garment diplomatically balanced with one for the other.  This week is was sweat shirts.  One, grey marle with sparkles, the other marshmallow pink with super long cuffs.

I have long since realised that my daughters are determined to be themselves.  Sometimes, however, they are also determined to be the same as each other.


The Pattern - Littlekiwiscloset - Street Smart Sweatshirt
The Fabric - Cotton sweat shirting from Levana with rayon knit accents from spotlight

There has been stitching, crafting and oh so many adventures.  I couldn't possibly leave them in the depths of a forgotten camera memory card.

This little mermaid is the result of a girl who believes her mother can make miracles.  The night before the party, she asked for a mermaid, for her friend.  Of course miracles are abound here, especially when one sets one's mind to it.  A little stitching, stuffing and velvet hair meant for a brief moment the goldfish had a friend.  It looks like he's just waiting for her to jump in.

pattern from - Wee Wonderfuls by Hilary Lang.

Little E has been teaching herself about love. Some she has worked out herself. This is along the lines of "I love you Mummy, Daddy, Miss H etc.." The rest she has extrapolated from watching a Barbie Fairy Princess Movie*. This was something along the lines of you get married to some one you love. The two sources of inspiration conspire to make some weird, but logical conclusions.

The conversation went like this:

"Mum, can two boys and two girls get married?"

Mum wondering where this is going.

"No, you can only get married to one person"

"Oh, Can two girls get married?"

Mum not wanting to get into the differences between civil unions and marriage or geopolitical boundaries and sexuality.

"If they want to"

"Oh, Can I get married to my sister?" Mum completely flummoxed on this one. Not ready to start that conversation.

"No"

In hindsight, I can think of many sage things to say, revolving around families, families joined by marriage etc. At the time however, I was both stumped and touched that Little E drew the conclusion that if you marry someone you love, of course she should marry her sister.


*Ok, we cut a deal in the video shop. I am not proud that this came home with us. To make it worse, it was a Barbie fairy princess wedding movie. Kind of like playing girly cliche bingo, without the ponies.

Before my children arrived, I was going to be perfect. My kids were going to be perfect*. I was going to walk around art galleries with my infant snuggled into their baby carrier, in all their knitted finery and then retire to a cafe for a well deserved coffee. I would sleep all night, and so would my children. They would wear nothing but perfectly matched, stylish handmade outfits. They would return from their adventures to an immaculate house and a home cooked meal. There would even be a fresh batch of brightly coloured play-dough to play with before their bath.

I quickly found this fantasy would take more energy than I imagined. The toys would be locked up for me to dish out when I saw fit. The play-dough would be for special occasions only (i.e. at other people’s houses) and getting dressed every day would be a battle. I know some people manage to make it work like that, but I just can’t. When all is said and done, I’m not even sure I’d want to.


My reality is quite different. I’ve let go of the magazine spread fantasy. I’ve admitted to myself that my children are both separate, and different from me. I don’t want my children vicariously living out my abandoned dreams. I’ve chosen to let the children explore for themselves with all the support I can provide. I want them to find their own dreams.

We don’t often walk around art galleries. It’s a matter of distance. My fridge is my gallery and it is always changing. We are currently being treated to our Picasso the Elder’s hands with fingers stage and Mondrian the Younger’s grids with colour. Days are punctuated by a need to draw, as desperate as the desire to breathe. The pencils and paper are always handy. They can be on the table before you can say “but it’s almost dinner time”.

The carefully matched outfits have gone out the window too, aided on their way by food related mishaps and a good dose of “No Mummy”. Dressing children is harder than I thought. On the flipside, hand sewn dresses are very useful. The little pull on smocks are great for covering grubby clothes just before leaving the house.


The home made playdough is probably the only item that survived the leap into reality. My kids have seen enough to know that making playdough means it is time to get the food colouring out and start stirring. You really don’t want to know about the time the elder decided to add the colouring herself (I didn’t even know she could reach it). However, I’m delighted that she knew what it was for. Making playdough is not so much a special occasion, but a necessity. There is always a homemade batch in the fridge.


Yes, there is a difference between the Mother I thought I would be, and the Mother I am. The Mother I want to be is calmer, more patient and relaxed than the one in the fantasies. Right now, that’s the one I’d rather be.

*Like any parent, I believe my children are wonderful. They are just as perfect as you and I – which is to say, not always.

There are ancient mysteries that lurk in our collective memories and modern ones that are small but mightily irritating. Odd socks are one of those small mysteries. I now know where odd socks go, and so do my kids. I still have to work out where mine went, but at least our smaller family members are sorted.

My mother used to have a paper bag hidden in the bottom of the hot water cupboard. It was a hidden secret that was only sorted when we ran out of socks or especially tidy relatives were due to visit. What Aunty Pat was going to do with our odd socks was beyond me, but mum lived in fear of her looking for a clean tea towel and coming out with mismatched underwear.

My odd socks are an equally sorry state, a plastic bag tucked down the side of my dresser. Matching and mismatching pairs of subtly different black knee highs is a complex task. I leave it for when I’m really desperate. If you see me coming with one opaque and one fishnet, you’ll know I’m having a bad day.

Rather than heralding the arrival of a man in a red suit, Little E’s socks are waiting for their friends to come home. Little E and I have lengthy conversations about laundry, friendless socks and take delight in reuniting long lost buddies. This collection is added to and updated every time washing is put away. It also makes me wish my socks were a little less black.

Miss H sees her sock collection as a challenge. I foolishly hung her ribbon over the change table. She covets socks while her nappies are changed. By the time she is ready for her socks, she will tell you, with some determination, exactly what odd socks she has chosen. Otherwise, she will just pluck them straight from the line and make her get away. For her, mismatched socks are a sign of victory rather than defeat.

If herding cats gets 5 stars for difficulty, then dressing a 3 year old surely deserves 10. I start out with visions of an immaculately turned out child with co-ordinated handmade clothes that subtly whisper my mother has style. Instead, I end up with a stunningly dressed child, with outfits that shriek I’m an individual and yes, I did dress myself today. You may not think it, but it is a victory on all fronts.

It doesn’t look like this in the magazines. The children are all well dressed, with brushed hair even. It all appeared so easy. As a prospective parent, I was convinced that my children would look like that too. Our days together would be carefully styled photo shoots. I still covet patterns and even occasionally even find the time to make something for my children.

Three year olds can have their own style. It has taken me a while to admit this to myself. Some children will only wear the clothes that have been carefully laid out for them. Others will put on every item in their wardrobe, knowing that they are only properly dressed when their arms can’t fit into yet another layer of clothing. Little E definitely has her own style. If I were a curator, I’d describe it as kinetic with more than a touch of purple. Think of swishy, swirly skirts, sequins, anything that moves when you walk, on a foundation of purple tracksuit pants and you would have Little E.

I was so sure that the purple skirt I made would be a favourite, yet I couldn’t for the life of me get her to try it. In the end, I just finished it and put it in her drawer. It felt like wardrobe malfunction of sorts.

You may be wondering why I still try to sew clothes for her. I wonder that myself, as she point blank refuses any request to try on clothes I make. In fact, every time, I swear never to do it again.

After sometime I had forgotten about the skirt. Then one morning she came out of her room, proudly swishing and twirling in her purple storm. It’s now challenging to get her out of it.

This smock was a similar story. I even tried to involve her in selecting the fabric. All along, I know I wanted it in the floral, not the black spots with orange trim Little E picked out. It went unworn, until she dragged it out last week, over one of her favourite purple items and proudly announced to anyone who cared to know that “Mummy made it”. Who knows, maybe it would have been a shorter process if I’d gone with the black spots.

It’s time to admit that I don’t have a mannequin, I have a child. Little E revels in her independence. If she chose it, she will wear it. It’s hard not to be disappointed when Little E isn’t nearly as excited about the things that I make, as I am. However, that I dressed myself look of pride is priceless. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.