I am not, as you are probably fully aware, terribly crafty. I am not overly adept at the wielding of a needle and thread, although I am capable of sewing a button on a shirt. Beyond that, my experience and skill with craft activities is, well, a void of nothingness.
Which would explain why the Joey’s and Venturer’s shirts of Chippie and Monkey Boy respectively are badgeless. Okay, that I am not a fan of sewing, and that there’s not a lot of badges to sew on the shirts.
Craft glue was obtained, courtesy of a friend who is really good at doing all those crafty type, good parenty things, and is often invovled in a variety of activities related to school, sports, and all sorts of stuff. The crux of the glueing on the badge experience was that … well, it didn’t work.
Let’s just leave that at that, along with the fact that eldest of my offspring appears to have inherited my abilities with craft.
Anyhoo, I found myself this evening with a huge list of things to do, a child to take to swimming lessons, and no idea how to use this time effectively. I perused my list, I glanced at the Joey’s shirt, and the pile of badges that were presented earlier in the evening (*sigh*), and the plethora of post it notes that required my attention.
I stuffed my laptop and list in my bag, grabbed the shirt and badges, and stuffed them in, too. I fossicked around the drawers until I located the “sewing kit”; a Quality Streets tin that I often leave sitting, non-chalantly on the table, and getting up the hopes of the kids when they return home from school. The moment they realise they have been jibbed is priceless. It never gets old.
So, there I was at swimming, stitching my finger to the front of the Joey’s uniform shirt, and having a mild battle with Guilt over what I should be doing. You know, all that ‘good mother’ pallava and the rest of the crap.
After bending a second needle, courtesy of the splodge of dried glue that didn’t work in previous attempts to get the badges on the shirt, I gave myself a small pat on the back for not drawing blood.
This is, for those who know me, impressive.
Also, in a rare turn of events, I didn’t actually have any bandaids in my posession; so aside from pride, I was also extremely grateful.
It was at this point that the phone rang. It was Grumpy Pants, advising me that he was taking Chippie to the Emergency Department (again), as he’d smacked his head on the side of his bed, and split his forehead open.
Again, I’m faced with a range of options; drag the middlest one out of the pool and rush off, wait until lessons finish and then go, or stay until there were no more badges to be stitched to the shirt.
Underlying factors also come into play; you see, I fully trust Grumpy to do what needs to be done. I trust that he is capable, and will do the best he can do. His best may or may not be “the best”, but you know what? My best isn’t always “the best” either.
I figured he was just as capable and “good” as I would be in the same circumstances. And to rush off would only undermine him.
Besides, he was there, and I wasn’t.
I carried on with my sewing, hands shaking, and clock watching, until I could interept Godzilla before he entered the change rooms and embarked upon some prolonged conversation about Minecraft, Portal, or whatever the latest game is, with his peers.
I garbled some stuff at him about towel and wrapping self and hurry up get in the car, dropped him off home for a shower, and rang Grumpy to let him know I was on the way in.
To which I was advised that Chippie’s head had been glued back together, and if I swung by the ED I could come pick him up. He them proceeded to give me directions to the ED, as though I had never been there twelve times ore more in the previous handful of years …
Really, if Chippie had just waited a half hour or so, I could have stitched him up myself. Or possibly glued then stitched. Or I find BlueTak works rather well around the house.
Chippie advised me that he had no headache, that there was a lot of blood, and that his belly button filled up with it.
He proudly showed me the cloth that had been held to his head, with a smile and a rather proud “Look what I made!”
He does love a bit of craft and creativity, that one.
Consoling Monkey Boy, whom had been first on the scene,and was clearly traumatised because he cleaned up the blood on the carpet, was a little tricker. As was reassuring Godzilla. A blob of craft glue, and a stitch or two with a contrasting colour thread just doesn’t cut it when the trauma is more along the mental lines.