Making Constraints

'The good craftsman,' writes sociologist Richard Sennett, 'places positive value on contingency and constraint.' 

I'm pretty sure that he didn't have these rabbits in mind when he wrote this.  And I'm pretty sure that I'm not a particularly good rabbit-craftsman. 

But I have a sense of what he means. And these rabbits are the result.

I had only planned to make one of these little fellas for Sophia's first birthday (tomorrow). But when Nikos saw it, he decided to place an order for another. ('Is my rabbit finished yet Mum?', he'd ask each day.)

And, to my surprise, making another one wasn't a problem.  In fact, I really enjoyed it. 

Lately I've found myself compelled to sew and make things. Each day my mind is buzzing with plans of what to make next, and I scribble down quick sketches whenever I get a chance.  

And part of this compulsion comes from working within constraints of time and materials. 

I've realised that I can sit down while the kids are having lunch and sketch out a pattern, sit by the sandpit to hand-sew a detail, or get them involved in playing with materials.

I realised that I can also work well within the limits of my material stash.  I already had the op-shop wool flannel that these bunnies are made from, and the old polar-fleece jumpers that they are stuffed with. The only thing I needed to buy was the thread for their noses.

(As an side: when I make things, I've noticed that my son does too.  He wants to make things rather than go out to look or buy them. He keeps surprising me:  he is becoming his own maker, with his own distinct tastes and ideas.) 

Constraints aren't always the problem I take them for.  They can awaken a sleeping imagination. Contingencies are often opportunities. 

The resulting home-made rabbits might not be everyone's cup of tea, but they work for me. 

Pen Wraps

Yesterday I found myself out and about with a few spare moments: one baby asleep, one toddler in his own sandpit world. I knew I had to make the most of it. I reached into my bag. No journal, but there was its back-up – the tiny, spiral-bound notebook. I started the search for my pen. Ink, yes, a full bottle. A dead biro, yep, but not my writing pen.

I don't think the pen has any special powers. I don't write better with it. It's enjoyable to write with, but in many respects it's a symbolic pen I use when writing for myself.  When I write for others, for pay, I use a robust steel jotter.  I like to mark the distinction between the two modes, to highlight the shift in audience.

Once upon a pre-kids time, this lost pen wouldn’t have been a problem. I’d have gone off to the shop buy a biro, borrowed one, or returned home at a relaxed pace to retrieve the misplaced one. But now such moments are precious. There is no certainty of time ‘later’ when I know I’ll be able to write. And it’s both frustrating and disappointing to face a lost opportunity. 

Especially when it’s my fault for being pen-less.

What did I do?

I wrote anyway. Engraving the page with the dead biro to leave traces -  a hidden message to retrieve later on with the nifty use of a pencil. 

Even if I never look at these words, I feel much better for writing them, to have worked when I had the time.

Now I shouldn’t have found myself in this situation. Afterall, I’ve just spent the last week making these pen wraps. Made of fabrics I’ve collected and gleaned over the years – Japanese and Thai blues, grey wools and navy cotton, roads and cars for little writers doing their letters – they exist precisely so my friends and family have no excuse for not taking their pens out with them. 

And so tomorrow my wrap will take its rightful place in my bag, alongside bibs and nappies, on the off chance…

Girlish imagination

Shortly after my daughter was born, my work colleagues sent her a gift: a very girly, flowery jumpsuit.  It was then that it finally hit me that I had a girl-baby, and this outfit was the first step in my socialisation. 

Socialisation is the on-going process where sex becomes gender. Pink is for girls, blue is boys. Girls like cots and boys like trains. Of course, in reality, it's often far more mixed up than this. But with each pink or frilly outfit that followed, I was reminded of this process.

When Sophia was four months old I came across this little dress in an op-shop for the grand price of 20 cents. It was size 2. I knew she wouldn't need it for quite some time. 

But, suddenly and more forcefully, I could imagine this heavy, snoring bundle as the little girl she might become. I could see, for better and worse, what it would mean to watch her grow - of how this baby would become her own little person. 

Fast-forward 7 months, Sophia's not yet one, but already big enough to wear this dress.  She's no longer the relaxed, casual baby. She's busy chasing her brother around with her crawl-walk, dragging her pretty outfit across stones, through mud, and in wet sand. I don't think I could ever have imagined her. 

Yet I'm grateful for the dress, and the small role it's played.  She's a lilac lightening strike!