Failure of The Family Tree

One of my strongest childhood memories is falling asleep at night to the soft hum of my mother's sewing machine. My mother is a seamstress, my grandmother was a seamstress and I'm fairly certain every dead female leaf that once grew on that branch of my family tree was also a seamstress.

I once thought my mother sewing all my clothes was the. worst. thing. to. ever. happen. to. me. All the cool kids had mothers who took them shopping for the latest fashions while my mother routinely dragged us into one fabric store after another, looking at an endless ocean of fabric bolts.

To my mother's (and grandmother's) dismay, I didn't seem to inherit the sewing gene. As much as my mother encouraged both my sister and myself, I just never thought sewing (and crafting in general) to be very interesting. Or perhaps I am just not smart enough to become a sewing guru. I'm hapless at figuring out patterns, I tend to waste fabric and my fingers seem to be a magnet for straight pins to jab.

I spend more time cussing and crying when trying to sew than actually getting any thread into the fabric.

I bring shame to my family name with my inability to sew in a straight line.

After losing control of the sewing machine and sewing the shirt I was trying to make onto my index finger, I put down the seam ripper and vowed to never again darken the door of another sewing room for as long as I lived.

My mother shed a few tears for not having a daughter to share her passion with while I shed quite a few trying to remove blue paisley fabric from finger.

My mother continues to create beautiful couture in the small confines of her sewing room while I continue to twitch whenever I see a sewing machine.

I never really gave much thought to my mutation on the family tree until my daughter suddenly got this weird glint in her eye when she saw my mother working at the sewing machine. It was just my luck that my daughter inherited the gene I never did. My kid? She's a born crafter. And the need for speed, er, sewing runs thick in her blood.

Now I'm all "Crap! Why didn't I just listen to my mother and let her teach me how to sew??" This is one of those moments where hindsight is a total pain in my arse.

So with my daughter showing an active interest (read that as PESTERING me to death for sewing lessons) I'm suddenly wishing I had actually paid attention in those home-ec classes in school instead of using them as a free period to read X-Men comic books.

I'm just a girl, standing in front of a sewing machine, asking it to love me.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

The easiest thing would be for me to admit that perhaps my mother was right all those years ago when she insisted that perhaps one day I would actually appreciate the skill and that learning how to sew wouldn't kill me (because sewing your fingers shut is painful but apparently not life threatening) and just ask for her help, but that would be like admitting defeat. Or that I was wrong. Either way, neither is going to happen. Mostly because I am a stubborn mule with rocks for brains.

I'd rather eat crow than admit I could use a little help with my daughter's new passion. And while my mother happily helps my daughter as much as she can, as often as she can, Fric needs more supervision than her grandmother can provide. Unless she moved in with us.

Bwhahahaha. Don't get any ideas Mom. (I love you, though.)

So I need to learn some basic sewing skills if only to keep up with my daughter and not look like a total dumbass.

Which is where my friend Deborah stepped in. Turns out, like my mother, she's a bit of a wizard with a sewing machine. However, unlike my mother, she has never threatened to jab me full of straight pins when I made wise cracks about her keeping me in stitches. Also, Deborah wrote a book. Which she happily sent to me when I told her my sob story about being the seamstresses daughter who doesn't know how to sew and how all the other seamstresses kids mocked me on the playground.

Turns out Deborah's book is almost as good as sitting beside my mother and paying attention instead of picking my cuticles and dreaming about Johnny Depp. My daughter and I are reading it together and I've even dusted off the sewing machine my mother gave me when I was younger. My mom may have been onto something with using sewing as a mother-daughter activity.

35 years old and I'm finally ready to start listening to my mother. Who says an old dog can't learn new tricks?

Stitch by stitch, I'm on my way to finally showing my mom what I'm made of. Which, at this point is just a bunch of crooked seams and uneven hemlines, but darn it, I'm back on the branch of the family tree.

Stitch By Stitch

*Thanks so much Deborah for the book, it is FANTASTIC. And I swear, I am actually reading it and not just using it as a coaster for my coffee table. I highly recommend getting yourself a copy of her book if you want to learn about sewing. With her book she'll have you sewing clothes, curtains and cushions in no time. Plus think of all the money you'll save. My pocket book finally understands why my mother always insisted on hand making our wardrobe.*

The Redneck Room Reno

As a child, my bedroom was my sanctuary, my haven from the harsh realities of having an annoyingly perfect little sister, a big brother who liked to throw me onto the floor, sit on me and dangle big wet loogies in my face and parents who obviously loved everybody more than they loved me.

Middle child syndrome, I has it.

I spent a lot of time in my bedroom listening to my stereo, playing my parents' old 8-track cassette tapes and staring at the posters of John Wayne and River Phoenix I had taped to my brown wood paneled walls while dreaming of the day I would wake up and no longer be a dork.

I'm still dreaming of that day, for the record.

After years of renting, one of the things that most excited me about home owning was finally being able to decorate my kids rooms. Living with brown wooden walls for most of my childhood made me want rainbows for my childrens' rooms.

It wasn't long before I fell into a paint can and soon a tradition was born. Every two to three years, I do a mini-room makeover for both of my children for their birthdays. I kick them out of their bedrooms for a few days while I toil away, and on their birthday I reveal to them their 'new' rooms and revel in their adoration and praise for how cool I am.

It's like Extreme Home Makeovers, only less extreme and more rednecked.

It's been three years since I last touched a paint brush and tackled the kids rooms and it was past time. I meant to do Fric and Frac's room last year but between the arrival of Jumby and hurting my back, I never got around to it.

But seeing as how I was starting to twitch every time I walked past Fric's room, I figured I couldn't put it off any longer. My daughter's room was driving me crazy.

Just looking at the pictures makes me itch.

Fric was 11, in love with lime green and pink. I did what I had to do to make my kid happy. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea.

I mean, who doesn't enjoy waking up to having their retinas burned out by bright lime green walls each and every morning?

So it was with great glee and gusto I kicked Fric out of her room to bunk with the boys and started the redecorating process.

After a day spent sanding the walls and painting two coats of primer on the wall to cover the darned dots, I was thoroughly annoyed and muttering about how stupid I was not to use vinyl stickers instead of hand painting each dot. This was definitely a home decorating FAIL.

But slowly the room started to take shape. After a mishap or two. Like spilling half a can of red paint on the linoleum. Or having the dog lick the paint off the walls just as fast as I could roll it on. And I don't even want to discuss how many times I tried to wire a new ceiling lamp in. My husband insisted a blind monkey could wire in a new lamp.

Apparently I needed a blind monkey because I couldn't seem to do it myself.

Twelve days after I started the room was finished.

Fric loves it.

I love the fact my eyes no longer bleed when I walk into her room. It's a win-win for everyone.

The ceiling lamp was the inspiration and jumping off point for the entire room. After listening to Fric ask me a gazillion times if she could write on her walls, and then seeing this lamp I knew exactly how I wanted to paint her room.

There is a black shag carpet on the floor. You can see the corner of it in this picture. You can also see every piece of lint and dirt on the carpet itself. It shows everything. Not my brightest idea.

The prints are from Story People. I adore their art.

My daughter is still laughing at my stick figures. I like to think they are retro chic.

God Bless the inventors of chalkboard paint. It went on really easily and it works like a charm. I have big graffiti plans for these walls when Fric's not looking.

Every time I paint the kids walls I always paint a heart somewhere in the room to remind them I may nag them, discipline them, bore them, annoy them, anger them and disappoint them, but I will never ever stop loving them.

Next up, the boys room. Except I've run dry on ideas. Feel free to pitch any you may have in the comment section. Because at this point, even polka dots are sounding good.

Operation Slobber Puss

Apparently, according to my children, I have been failing at this parenting gig.

Now, if I had force-fed them nothing but the dried up rosehips dotting the shrubs around our home, I could perhaps understand this. But since they have a healthy diet consisting of popsicles, sugar cereals and jam I'm a wee bit confused.

Or, if I locked them in their room with nothing to do but chew on their toenails I may be in agreement with their judgment. But in order to lock them in their room I'd have to drag them out of the swimming pool or off the trampoline and let's face it, my kids are slippery little devils. For the most part I happily spend obscene amounts of money on playthings to keep them out of the house. Having them locked in their rooms would mean subjecting myself to listening to them fight and whine. Contrary to my blonde hair, I'm smarter than that.

So it was with a bit of confusion that I looked at my kids, who were standing side by side, frowning at me as I held Jumby in my arms, and asked just how I failed at parenting.

"It's no fair!" One whined.

"You don't play with us!" The other complained.

"Excuse me? Don't play with you? My retinas are still blurred and my lungs are on fire from all the chlorine I ingested yesterday when you ganged up on me in the pool and tried to drown me, repeatedly. For hours. The blisters on my hand from holding the Wii remote are threatening to fester if I play anymore video games with you and might I remind you how I whooped your arses in Scrabble this morning?"

For crying out loud, the only thing I have done since my children went on summer vacation is play with them. I'm tired of playing. If I worked as hard at cleaning my house, or um, blogging, as I do at playing with my children I'm sure my life would be far more successful. Or at least my toilet wouldn't be fuzzy.

"No, that's not what we mean," Frac said. "We mean you don't play with us the way you play with Jumby."

"Ah, well if you want sweetie, we can play Patty Cake right now," I teased.

"Very funny Mom."

"Well of course I don't play with you the same as I play with Jumbster. He's six. You're almost 13 and 14. He's developmentally delayed. Your report cards indicate you are on the bright side of smart. He's a quadriplegic; the two of you walk on your hands for fun. Are you seeing the difference or shall I go on?"

"We know all that MOOOOM," my daughter countered. "It's just, um.." she trailed off.

"It's just that you cuddle with him and not with us," Frac finished the sentence his sister started.

"Ahhh. I see. You're jealous. Of your blind, deaf brother who eats from a tube and will never walk." I took a moment to nuzzle Jumby's neck.

"We're not jealous! We love Jumby! It's just we want you to cuddle with us like you cuddle with him."

"I cuddle with you all the time. Heck, I can't even sit on the couch by myself because you two want to sit beside me."

But the words sat with me, long after the conversation ended and my kids moved on, satisfied they had been heard and that I had listened.

Do I cuddle Jumby more than the older two? To some extent, I had to admit to myself, yes. For the past year I have slobbered more on Jumby than I do on my husband, whom I'm legally required to slobber on. I've been trying to establish a maternal bond with him, trying to reassure him through my touch that I will be his forever mommy, always.

Had I neglected the older two kids in the process? Have I made them feel lesser in my efforts to make Jumby feel like this is his home? Mommy guilt haunted me. Yes, I kiss and hug Fric and Frac every day. Our house is an affectionate household. Even before their brother Bug passed away, I dribbled my mommy love onto my kids through my hugs and kisses. I didn't grow up with parents who openly showed affection and I have always been careful to make sure my kids feel my love through my touch.

But have I been committing the cardinal parenting sin and blatantly favouring one sibling over the others?

This called for an immediate investigation. So I called my husband.

"Do I favour Jumby over the other two kids?" I immediately asked when he answered his phone.

"Um, hello to you too. Why yes, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"I'm serious Boo. I think your kids think I love Jumby more than I love them," I worried aloud and then explained the situation with him.

My husband, ever the rock that keeps me grounded, laughed. "Um, no. They are just being brats. You abuse them equally. You're fairly fair in your distribution of maternal slobber. I think you are worrying for nothing."

Clearly my husband would be of no help with this.

So I asked my Dad. He's here almost every day and has an inside view of the maternal-child relations. He's a straight shooter. He'll tell me like it is.

"Dad, do I spoil Jumby? The kids think I love him more than them."

"Ah, just put a boot up their arses and tell them to go clean their rooms and stop bothering you."

Right. Perhaps my father isn't the foremost authority on tactful parental relations.

This meant I only had one choice left.

Operation Slobber Puss.

I decided I would make sure every time I kissed or held Jumby to make sure I immediately shared the affection with his older siblings.

At first, my kids lapped it up. It was a free love festival around here all the time. My kids couldn't walk past me without me stopping to hug them and lay a big smooch on them. My lips were getting chapped from all the kisses I was doling out. Apparently, I cuddle with Jumby a whole lot more than I was aware of. But since the kid doesn't walk and requires me to carry him everywhere for his basic daily needs, he tends to be in my arms a lot. Which meant, since I was insistent on equally sharing the love, seeking out the older two for random moments of affection.

It didn't take long for my kids to begin to grow weary with the constant cuddles. Apparently interupting their game of tag or making them stop their video games in a critical moment to kiss me can get a bit annoying. Who knew?

The weariness quickly grew into aggravation and it wasn't long before my children would twitch every time they saw me walk towards them. At one point my kids even held up their hands in the sign of a cross and hissed at me like they would a vampire. "Enough Mom!"

Still, I persisted. It's always been an active concern of mine that in my quest to parent first Shalebug and now Jumbster, that my kids would be neglected as my maternal efforts are swallowed by the needs of the disabled child. It's always been a struggle to find a balance at parenting the healthy children when their disabled little brother waves his overwhelming needs in our faces. It isn't always easy being the healthy kid in a family with a child with special needs. I recognize that and want my healthy children to know that even though I can't always be there for them, I see them.

If my kids want more cuddles, than darn it, cuddles they will get.

Then the straw that finally broke my camels' backs finally dropped. I was trying to be an affectionate mother with Frac as he was trying to read his book. As I leaned in and blew a raspberry kiss onto the side of his neck like I do his little brother, he stood up and slammed his book down.

"All right! Enough! No more kisses. Just leave us alone!" His sister, who was in the other room, sauntered in and nodded her agreement with her little brother.

"It's too much Mom! You're always touching us. It's driving us bonkers," she said.

"But I'm just cuddling with you like I do with your little brother!" I insisted, somewhat taken back.

"But we're not six! And we're not a baby in our brain like he is! It's different!" They both retorted.

I looked at them, as Jumby rolled around on the floor in a little patch of sunlight, softly cooing to himself and then I smiled. Wickedly.

"Well, thank heavens that is over! Come on Jumby, let's go play Patty cake," I said as I scooped him up and into my arms.

I mean, showing maternal love is all fine and dandy. But there comes a time when giving your child raspberry kisses needs to come to an end.

Because let's face it. No matter how much you love your children, once they have body odour and pubic hair, smooching on them while making monster noises just ain't the same.