As a non-practicing Catholic, however, I was so busy not paying attention to the election selection of a new pope that I almost completely forgot about the grandest day of the whole Christian whoseamawhats's -- The biggest zombie rising of all -- Easter.
(I know ... I'm going to hell for that last paragraph.)
I was reminded of all the preparations I'd forgotten, when the kids came home from school yesterday with instructions to bring in a dozen filled Easter eggs tomorrow.
So, in my usual fashion, I decided to try and make a craftacular Easter project in three hours, using things I fished out of the trash: Felt scraps, stuffing from an old pillow and paint chips.
The idea was simple:
* Sew together two circles of felt (or furry fabric scraps) leaving about an inch on one side open.
* Turn the seams inward and stuff with old pillow fluff.
* Cut ear shaped spears from the fabric, pinch at the centers and stick into the front-most part of the opening.
* Sew it shut.
* Sew on eyes, a nose, whiskers and a cotton tail. (I used the tops of cotton swabs for the tail when I ran out of pompoms).
* Glue rabbit onto a paint chip because there's no way this is going to stand on its own.
You end up with something like this:
Then I got the bright idea to make a carrot bookmark:
* Sandwich together two rectangles of orange felt.
* Machine sew a carrot-shaped outline, complete with segments, leaving space at the top open.
* Insert a couple of loops of green felt.
* Topstitch the carrot closed.
* Cut out around the stitching with pinking sheers
* Cut a slit in a paint chip, insert carrot.
* Tape carrot down in the back.
And it looks like this:
Hardest part will be cleaning up ...
since it looks as if the Easter Bunny vomited in my office.
A friend wrote about that feeling that might be summed up by people in our lives in a single word: Disillusionment. But how it's really something much more complicated.
She wrote about how a momentary thought breeds other momentary thoughts. Usually harmless day dreams of what life would be like in an alternate universe. Where you've made different choices.
It stirred me.
When I'm at my worst - I think of disillusionment as moribund.
A death spiral. Nothing good will ever be again.
The clinical amongst you might call that depression. I'm sure it is that and more.
But it's complicated.
At the point of disillusionment we try to measure our worth against the perceived value we've placed on others.
It is a losing strategy.
There's always a thumb on the proverbial scale.
I keep having to tell myself that my shortcomings are each important cogs in some machine I can't fully comprehend but must trust.
We could be self assured and be wrong. We can be angry and be wrong. We can be happy and be wrong. We can be kind and wrong. We can be wrong any number of ways. We will be wrong many number of ways.
We can be right and be wrong.
But if we have hope we can be wrong and move on.
We may not know how our stories end but we know they will. Someday.
So today, I must remember that there is always something else. There is always a place to go. To be. To explore. To rediscover.
This life is insignificant and everything - it is tiny and huge - and no one, especially ourselves, has all the tools needed to measure it with any real precision.
They're "ACTION FIGURES," the champ chided emphatically.
"NOT DOLLS!" as I had erroneously called one after stepping on it and hopping around the living room floor swearing and openly wishing the dog would chew them all to plastic bits.
"Then pick up your ACTION FIGURES and put them away before someone gets maimed."
He just harrumphed and headed toward his toys with sloth-like speed.
Typical.
Honestly, I don't see that much difference between the way the boy plays and the way the girl does. They both sing songs as they move toys around in their imaginary worlds. They both shriek and act like their fingernails are being ripped out one-by-one when the other touches their stuff.
Normal. Ish.
The only difference seems to be the terms.
In Boyland, dolls, as we've all learned, are "action figures."
Doll houses are "secret lairs."
And doll clothes are disguises.
His dudes surf ...
Rescue damsels ...
or not ...
His dudes fight with their sisters ...
The usual.
It didn't even seem out of the ordinary when he asked me to make him a doll like the one I made for his sister.
Only his doll had to be a boy doll.
With boy doll parts.
"That means he wants his doll to have a penis," Ittybit translated.
I knew that. I was just stunned into silence.
What can of worms would this open?
Anatomical.
AnaTommyCal.
AnyTummyGall?
Of course, Ittybit was laughing at me. Over-thinking as usual.
ThisAintFunnyGirl.
"It's not that difficult," she said, brushing past me to sit behind the sewing machine. She took a scrap of fabric, folded it twice and ran it under the presser foot like a pro. A few passes of the machine and it was done.
She turned it inside out and handed me the results.
I had to admit. It looked like a private part.
She showed it to her brother, who was delighted. It looked convincing enough.
"Are you going to put it on my doll," he asked, unable to contain his excitement.
"Not before I have clothes ready. This doll has to be appropriately dressed in public places. Just like you can't go to school nude, he can't take off his clothes unless he's taking a bath or getting ready for bed.
"How long is that going to take?"
"Have patience. I don't want to rush it and make a mistake."
"Please hurry. He REALLY needs to go to the baffroom, and I don't want him to have an accident."
