Humatrope 8/Sewing Tip 8: Tassel Tutorial

Tassels give weight to the closure of the Humatrope collar, helping it stay in place

The tassels of the Humatrope collar are modelled on the ones taught me by my mentor and friend, the wonderful Vancouver couturier, Blossom Jenab. I spent a year of free time (seriously!) busily making an embroidered, beaded corset to Blossom's specifications. The finishing touch - the tassels - were fun to make and so over-the-top decadent, I just had to try a riff on them for the Humatrope collar. 

Tassels from corset made from Blossom's instructions; the left one is unfinished

Embroidery floss is wound around cardboard, much like a pompon is made, and secured at the top with heavy-duty thread to form a bobble, which is then beaded and attached to the braided cording that is the closure.

Here are the instructions, in case you want to make your own.

Ingredients for tassels: 15 year-old floss, needle caps, found pearl beads, cardboard 

You will need a folded piece of cardboard the height of the desired finished tassel, and some sort of thread or floss. I used a flattened box from my daughter's alcohol swabs and a left-over spool of glossy, woven embroidery floss from a beading class with Blossom, 15 years ago.

• Estimate the amount of floss needed by quickly wrapping it around the cardboard until it looks the right thickness. Count the wraps as you go. I used 27 for each tassel. Add an arm's length, or so, for good luck. Unwind. 
• For the optional beading on the tassel loops, count out the necessary number of needle caps and pearl beads - 1 set for each wrap. Poke a hole through the end of each needle cap using a sharp pair of pointy scissors and twist to make a smooth hole. Each of the tassels has 8 purple caps amongst the green, to represent my daughter's age. (We changed needle type partway through making the thing, and wouldn't you know but the new ones were a different colour!) 

String the beads before winding onto the cardboard, spacing randomly

• Using a darning needle, string a needle cap onto the floss. String a pearl, which will act as an anchor, then go back up through the needle cap. The blunt needle will help avoid piercing the floss when working back up through the cap. Repeat with remaining caps and beads. The spacing will be only rough at this point. The floss will look kinked, like a string of Christmas lights.

Wrap in an "X" shape, one needle cap per wrap

• Begin wrapping the floss around the folded cardboard, with the fold at the bottom. Wrap in an "X" shape. Slide the beads along the floss, if necessary, so that each wrap contains exactly one cap and bead. Wind both tassels in the same manner. Secure the thread tails with tape.

Beginning to sew the tassel

• Thread a heavy needle with strong thread or embroidery floss. Knot both ends together, so the thread is doubled. Push the needle between the two layers of cardboard, under the floss at the top end of the tassel, then back through the doubled thread loop. Pull tightly, to secure the windings. Remove the tape and slip the mess of threads off the cardboard by bending it slightly.

A reject tassel - not thick enough - showing the bobble being formed. Too skinny

• Sew repeatedly through the top end of the tassel, all over the place, to form a dense mass of stitches that will prevent the wraps from coming loose. Go in and out in all directions, wrapping the thread occasionally, too, to form the bobble. You will run out of thread once or twice. Re-thread your needle with a single ply of heavy thread and keep going until you have formed a nice, chubby ball on top.

Forming the handle around a pen. Note the bobble, made of lots of heavy thread

• Make a handle on top of the tassel with two loops of heavy thread.  I formed the loops around a pen. Secure well by stitching in and out of the bobble a few more times.

The handle: two loops of thread, covered with buttonhole stitch

• Cover the handle with buttonhole stitch, using whatever colour or type of thread your little heart desires. I used silver on the corset. On the Humatrope collar, instead of matching floss, I (inexplicably) chose old, pink embroidery cotton that probably once belonged to my grandmother.

The cord is braided right onto the handles

• Bead the ball as you desire, to cover up the mass of stitches. I used random-coloured beads from clothing hang tags that have been amassing over time, cotton thread, and a very fine beading needle. I went through each strand of beads twice, just in case. 
• Attach the cord by stitching it to the handle then covering with another layer of buttonhole stitch to hide the evidence, as I did for the corset tassels.
  Or attach by folding three strands of cord over the handle, and braiding the resulting six strands together, as I did with the Humatrope collar. This second method makes a clean finish, and doesn't require further embellishment to cover up the stitching.

8 purple needle caps because she is 8, and love in every stitch

All that's left is figuring out what to do with the exquisite little item you just made. But as Blossom says, make the garment and the occasion to wear it will present itself.

Humatrope 1: Ingredients

Humatrope 2: Test Swatch and Scoliosis Brace

Humatrope 3: Foundation, More Brace

Humatrope 4: Lost for Words
Humatrope 5: Hello Little Girl in the Bullet-Proof Vest

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions
Humatrope 7: From the 13th Floor

October 23, 2015 - Meatballs, Raspberries

A quick one, I hope: got to get up early for tomorrow's Our Social Fabric sale - the last one at 871 East Hastings. After we give away the last bundle we will dismantle the shop, pack it all into a storage pod, and figure out what to do next.

The music: Joni Mitchell BBC Concert, 1970; Neil Young, same thing, 1971, three times. Can't get enough Neil. Rolling Stones: Live at the BBC (1963-1965); Rolling Stones It's Only Rock 'n' Roll.

Kitchen Island - Friday, October 23, 2015 

Counter-clockwise from lower left: the same water bottle as yesterday, Humatrope, glasses, Encyclopedia of Creative Cooking, phone 1 of 3, yard sale measuring cups. The set was missing exactly the one cup I already had. Lucky, right?

The Encyclopedia of Creative Cooking, 1982, edited by Charlotte Turgeon

Passed a major milestone yesterday: 10,000 hits on my site. I've been watching it come for months. Celebrated with Hawaiian meatballs from the cookbook I snagged from my mom when I left home in 1983, but used pre-made, Costco meatballs. Delicious.

Dinner: two ate Hawaiian Meatballs, one had his meatballs with tomato sauce, one had his tomato sauce with faux ground beef. Cucumbers. 3 milk, 1 sparkling water with lemon

Love Notes

To Do Lists for Three

Trivot from yard sale free box -  what is she doing to that fish?

Contingency plans

Dreams, Reality

Peppers from my daughter's plant, ageing ginger, sketchy fennel, one canning lid left-over from making zucchini relish, a piece of cording, and one small potato - dug by hand on a summer's late afternoon. No gloves, but the soil was perfect and cool and the potatoes worth the dirty fingernails. 

The bowl was painted by me in Mexico, the reward at the end of a pointless time-share presentation. It took a surprising amount of time - most of the vacation... the painting, that is. I was 7 months pregnant. We were there to rest. When I wasn't painting I lay on my side on the swinging palapa platform, reading - white cotton curtains surrounding me, sparkling turquoise ocean just beyond - sucking back banana smoothies and dreaming about the little girl inside me. We would understand each other. 

Though most of my dreams for her will never come true, the same is true for any parent's dreams! The difference is timing, that's all. My dreams came to an end when she was only two months old, when we were presented with her diagnosis, grabbed by the collar, and rudely jerked out of our misty dream-world. How lucky for me! Unburdened by my own hopes, I am free to celebrate her smallest achievement: jumping with two feet together, for example, or figuring out the first step of tying shoelaces. Her achievements are many and fill me with pride. What's more, she is fascinating. She is a delight. Who knows what she's capable of?

The last raspberries of summer - worth removing one's gum for

October 22, 2015 - Headshots and MRI

Spent most of my spare time today trying to take a decent picture to replace the manic-fabric-nutbar shot I currently use. Magazine article submissions require a headshot! Argh! I tried some neutral, serious poses between dropping my daughter off at school, and returning there again for the annual start-of-the-year IEP* meeting with her teachers, classroom aid and learning resource teacher, two hours later. Deleted them all.
*Individual Education Plan for students with special needs - legal document outlining the team's three goals this school year: feeding, educational and social

Attempt at "placidly neutral" - and not the worst shot!
I need to get more sleep...

I continued to attempt natural and pleasant poses in the 10 minutes I had alone before the appliance repair guy showed up. Snapped away while he was in the basement, humming and "diagnosing" the dryer's problem. Ran out to pick daughter up. Took (deleted) more while she bathed.

Got daughter out of the bath, brace on, clean clothes, kids in the car (one angry; tablets - both), met husband at the roundabout, main entrance to Children's Hospital. Said goodbye to son, husband and car. MRI for daughter at Children's (scoliosis) while husband waited at son's SLP* group session.
*Speech and Language Pathology - board games and facilitated social interactions

Reconvened 2 1/2 hours later. Considered eating out, but too much work to agree on a restaurant. Drove home, instead; Disregulation Level: Moderate.

Two of us ate left-over chicken kabobs on top of left-over noodles, with 1/4 jar of yummy butter chicken sauce. One of us ate a veggi burger between two slices of bread. One of us devoured 2 microwave chimichangas and a pickle. 2 drank milk, 1 water, 1 I don't remember. All ingredients from Costco.

After the boys left the table, there was a very long session of "Cat-Dog, Human", in which my daughter sits on me and alternates feeding me imaginary catnip and dog cookies. It's a terrific game, now that I've learned how to play it. When I let her drive, we always get home safely.

Kitchen Island - Thursday, October 22, 2015

Lamp shade, assortment of dessicated bugs

From top left: "Cat-Dog, Human" took place without her brace. Double heaven! Afterward, she looked up at the bug-peppered kitchen light fixture and demanded satisfaction. All summer she has been fascinated by the building collection of dead wasps, fruit flies and other random bugs trapped within. My husband washed it out as the party continued upstairs, briefly and energetically joined by my son.

Nighttime rituals observed, and now, at 11:32 I am finally seeing my head shot attempts. I want to write, but last night's little post kept me up til almost 4. Don't know how long I will last.

Continuing counter-clockwise, the green kit is my daughter's Humatrope* injection pen. It is given at night, since that is when the body does its growing. It needs to come to room temperature before the dose is given - the cold can hurt.
*human growth hormone

Manual and paperwork from our broken dryer. It will cost at least $300 to fix, but the technician thinks it's worth it: It's a good machine, it should last you another 4 years. FOUR YEARS??? Is the expected life-span of a new dryer just 11 years???? He will come back tomorrow with 4 replacement parts. Our hand basket is well on its way to Hell.

Son's water bottle.

The library book my husband is currently reading on the bus: The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden. It is excellent, he says.

Lastly on the island: a bouquet of late-blooming garden flowers from the mother of the person who helps me out with the kids twice a week. This is our respite, provided by the MCFD. It took us 7 years to get to the top of the pile to receive this funding. $196.30 per month buys roughly 3 1/4 hours help per week.

In the love note bowl on the breadbox: faux Tupperware, waiting to be returned to dear friends who share their celebrations with us, and send us home with leftovers. Love left-overs! I ate the resulting hash myself, at least three days running.

The tulip tree on the city property in front our house is raining down crispy, orange-brown leaves, but barely a portion has fallen. I've filled the yard waste bin with them once, already. This weekend is Extra Leaf Pickup; hope I get time to rake tomorrow.

After repeated hit-and-runs by the construction trucks coming in and out of our alley, squashing several of my plastic garden pots, I finally moved some of them in front of the garage, where they should be safe. I'll shuffle them back when the house is built, or my husband needs his car, whichever comes first.

My daughter's former bean garden, laid to rest

Is there any point in getting a car wash when rainy season is almost upon us? I think not. An interior vacuuming, however, would be a different story. Sadly, it's waaaay down there on the list of priorities. My car is a utilitarian vehicle.

The music: Neil Young BBC concert, 1971; The Witch Doctor Song - 3 different versions; Lonnie Donegan singing "Does Your Chewing Gum Lose its Flavour?" (Want to know the Beatles connection?)

Coming up tomorrow: Pro-D Day: 2 hours neuroplastic tutoring at the Vancouver Learning Centre for my daughter in the morning, followed by 1 1/2  hours patting dogs with respite provider (we love her!), and a play date at a classmate's (rare and highly anticipated). For me: catch up on emails and fix up late-night blog post mistakes while waiting for daughter at VLC; meet with fellow classmate from Master Recycling Class over tea to discuss recent trip to the Transfer Station and Landfill (excellent field trip!). Followed by a "Lady Beauty" appointment - a gift I give myself every two weeks: an hour and a half on my back, eyes closed. Wake up, pick up daughter from play date, rush home to meet appliance repair person. Later, laundry.

Humatrope 7: From the 13th Floor

Humatrope collar: used alcohol swabs, needle caps, words of love

Of the swirl of confusion that is my memory of receiving my daughter's diagnosis from the paediatrician, this sentence stands out clearly: If I was going to pick a disability, I'd have PWS over Down Syndrome any day. Until a few moments earlier, when she led me into her private office and graciously invited me to google it there, alone, I hadn't realized my two-month-old baby had a disability at all. I was ill-prepared to feel grateful for the relatively encouraging diagnosis, or to contemplate a choice between the two. I wouldn't have picked either one.

My first reaction was fleeting, just a glance at the tiny, open window, 13 storeys up; and a brief calculation of the best path to that window, over the desk on which sat the computer... the computer. Google it? No thanks. I'll sit here in the semi-dark, and stare at this beautiful, sweet, perfect, 2 month-old baby with the sparkling eyes. She fills me up and smells like butterscotch.

One dead of silent night in the NICU* I asked the nurse - whispered to her, and it still seemed too loud: You've seen lots of babies, all sorts of cases. Do you think it's possible this baby could be... dull?
Oh, no, not this baby. Just look at her eyes.
*Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit

I hoped it was the antidepressant I had continued taking throughout my pregnancy, that had seemed so necessary and recommended. My mom thought she just needed ripening. She was beginning to show some spunk, we thought. We'd even heard her cry, kind of. That's why I had gone to what I thought was an ordinary 2-month check-up, merrily alone: I was clueless. She had sparkly eyes! As I sat with her in the dim, and the doctor saw to her other patients, my husband, also clueless, but now alarmed, was rushing there from work. The doctor had called him herself.

Tassles: needle caps, found pearls, extra beads

We did eventually google it. A lot. At least my husband did. I prefer my bad news in small instalments, don't like to dwell too much upon the future - especially since the present doesn't much resemble any of the permutations we were advised to expect. I get the main points from my good friend, Heather, president of the BC Prader-Willi Association. She keeps me apprised of developments: clinical trials and research; supplements and diets; new babies* and untimely deaths; controversies about Human Growth Hormone, dealing with rigid behaviour, scoliosis surgery options; a remedy for skin picking that works; info about types of alarms for fridges, and GPS for kids running away to seek food; heart-wrenching anecdotes about ordinary people in extraordinary situations added to the mix along with all the other stuff parents of all sorts must deal with.
* one or two in BC per year, or 1 in 20,000 world-wide, across all populations. The least rare, rare disease, we are told - for whatever that's worth

PWS is bad science fiction – a cruel kind of torture that morphs from failure to thrive, to an all-consuming, insatiable hunger just a few years later. A month after receiving the diagnosis, we attended our first BCPWSA conference, smashed head-on into the towering brick wall of our reality. Driving home that evening we were silent, absolutely deflated, pinned down by heavy piles of crushing debris. But glimpses at the back seat, lit by passing streetlights, showed a sleeping angel. Introduced by a social worker at the BC Centre for Ability, Heather had written in her first email to me, "Hi and Congratulations. I will give you some of the advice I received, which was just to love that little girl and try not to let the fear override the joy of your new baby. Many children are doing so well and there is a lot of research happening that can really change their futures." I decided to go with that.

I know we are very lucky. The most bizarre, disturbing - and the most-feared - hallmarks of Prader-Willi Syndrome - never-ending, over-powering hunger; ceaseless food seeking; obsessive-compulsions; skin-picking - are, so far, (knock wood) absent. They're long over-due and probable, but for now our lives are minimally affected (knock on wood): we don't lock our kitchen cupboards, we leave food in plain sight, we don't give constant supervision in case she should acquire it in some stealthy way and cram herself so full it backs up, is spewing from her mouth as she tries to stuff more in and her stomach tears in several places because she doesn't vomit or feel much pain*. Fingers crossed and knock on wood.
* according to one study, Gastric Rupture and Necrosis accounts for 3-6% of deaths in PWS. The unsupervised eating binge usually occurs at a family holiday celebration, where everybody thinks somebody else is monitoring food intake. When everybody is watching, nobody is watching

Incredibly, our daughter tells us she is full, at which point she stops eating. No credit to us. She even magically limits herself to the 1200 daily calories her whacked-out metabolism runs on. The only thing I have to do is provide healthy food and limit bad choices: 1200 calories leaves very little room for treats, so they are a big deal, infrequent, stingy and savoured. Though there are troubling signs the transition may soon be upon us, so far we've had it pretty easy. Knock wood. (You'd think I was superstitious...)

The biggest challenge has been cognitive. In the giant Gelatin Mould of Life, learning, for her, is like wading through shoulder-high Jello to read the backwards writing on the bottom of the Pyrex bowl. But not to worry: it's strawberry Jello! It smells good! And it makes everything look so pretty, and pink.

Her sweet personality goes a long way: she's gregarious - especially to dog-owners - cheerful, fun, kind, naturally optimistic, brave and strongly attached. She connects deeply and opens her heart and her imagination to anyone who shows a fleeting interest, sharing her kooky world of witches, Hansel and Gretel, vampires, sharks, Terry Fox and his robot leg, bullies who recoil at the colour pink, and the ever-so-handsome Everly Brothers. Did I mention she loves dogs..?

There are some minor hassles and endless appointments: endocrinologist, opthamologist, orthopaedic surgeon; brace fittings, swallow and feeding studies, stim tests, nightly needles, tutoring, blah, blah, blah. She rolls with it, looking forward to the appointments like she might a play date, making a non-issue of the shots. A brace for scoliosis is the newest challenge. She hates it, but she endures it. During her daily one-hour break we rub her skin, give her a good scratching, scrub the stinky brace with Dr. Bronner's and alcohol. Switch out undershirts. Tickle, wrestle and hug.

She almost never complains, but I don't blame her when she does. For the most part, she smiles as she pushes her way through that thick Jello, eyes sparkling, patting every dog along the way, hiking her pants back up over her brace, and teaching me about bravery, gratitude, and enjoying life. If I had to pick between PWS and Downs, I still wouldn't choose either one. I would take away the yoke from her neck in an instant - but I would not change her for the world.

Sewing details here

Humatrope 1: Ingredients

Humatrope 2: Test Swatch and Scoliosis Brace

Humatrope 3: Foundation, More Brace

Humatrope 4: Lost for Words
Humatrope 5: Hello Little Girl in the Bullet-Proof Vest

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions
Humatrope 7: From the 13th Floor
Humatrope 8/Sewing Tip 8: Tassel Tutorial

Waste Audit, 14 Days

Contents of sewing room garbage can - 14 days

Homework for Master Recycling class: a personal waste audit. Held on to all household waste for 2 weeks to see what I could see. This is the bag that came from the sewing room trash can. Clockwise, from top (before sorting): 

• Marathon of Hope sticker. September - when a young girl's thoughts turn to Terry Fox. My daughter ran for Terry.
• Two lunch bag love notes can be made from one grocery store receipt. 
• Yellow name tag from a hand-me-down backpack from the kids two doors away.
• Candy wrapper - one of two unexplained bits of trash found during my audit. Curiosity plus independence, or the beginnings of hyperphaegia? Too early to tell, but the next stage of Prader-Willi syndrome is long overdue.
• Thread snips and embroidered, used, alcohol swabs (you read that right) - the Humatrope Collar is finally finished! These are the rejects from making the labels.
• Broken twin needle - altered some clothes for a friend. 
• Granola wrappers - haven't been eating properly.
• Fish food package - my daughter finally owns a pet. Violet the beta is very well-fed.
• Light bulb from sewing room - I spend a lot of time here, late into the night. Not quite sure how to dispose of it...

Lunch bag love notes

Brace Update 1: Treatment Salon

Her arms and thighs are bruised from Humatrope injections

Treatment Salon is open July, June, Thursday, all kinds of days, and September. Can I give you the treatment?

I hadn't intended on receiving a treatment. I had only wanted to ensure her hair was properly washed; she is only 8, and she has a lot of hair.

The Treatment begins with a back wash, using a sizable slice of gorgeously smelly soap - given to her by three enraptured sales clerks at a recent visit to Lush. We had gone there to purchase gifts for friends in Tokyo.

It wasn't busy, and they were following her as she transversed the store, soberly smelling every sample, and occasionally offering brief, decisive comments: Good! So-so (with horizontal wobble of the hand). Woohoo; that's bad! The staff weighed in on favourite scents and products. One gave her an arm massage: she was pleased. The second attempted to impress her with a suds-making demonstration: she was gracious. The third indulgently endured a lengthy series of semi-personal questions: Do you have a dog? Do you have a fish? Do you have a mother? Do you have a sister? Is she nice? Does she work here?

To give her the soap was a unanimous decision. She sniffed it deeply, thanked them, and we left. Within steps she spied the next befriending opportunity, and was off: Hi-can-I-pat-your-dog?

I float in the background of these conversations, enjoying her pure gregariousness - devoid of artifice, or any agenda other than to connect with dogs and people, and to smell things. She loves to smell things. She confirms things by their smell: flowers in the neighbourhood; product in the hair; food in the store. She sniffs the cutting board: Watch the knife! She sniffs the pan: Get your face away from the stove! She regularly sniffs me, sidling up as though to hug me, but never quite; just holding her nose very, very close. Complete stillness; only the scent exists. She is truly in the moment... until I shatter that moment with an uninvited hug.

Her hugs! I just don't get enough! Short, squeezy ones, our whole bodies squashed deliciously together - her crazy hair in my face.  Or slow, drapey ones, after dinner, on my chair, her cheek on mine, eyes closed. I sigh her name. She sighs back. Her hugs are blissful - and rare.

Not symmetrical - the brace over-corrects the curve,
pushing it back the opposite direction

For me, this has been the biggest impact of her wearing the scoliosis brace. Her hugs – when they come - are no longer huggy; they are rigid and bumpy and hard. Snuggling and wrestling with her can cause bruising! I look forward to the one hour each day we remove her brace, hoping for the opportunity for an un-armoured hug. When part-way through her shampoo she offered me the Treatment, of course I stepped into her salon! And she was sharing her special soap - this would be Treatment, indeed.

The substantial lathering is followed by a delicate scrub with an abrasive, pink cloth. Next: scratching fingers - soft and quick and just enough on the raspy side of ticklish to be delightful. This has the added bonus of softening the filth under her fingernails, an on-going issue for a girl who loves worms, making potions from garden plants, water and soil, and wearing polish on long nails.

Rinse, dry off, clean nails, put on special undershirt and brace, have injection, brush teeth. We retire to her bed, where treatment continues with a skiff of coconut oil, and ends, eyes closed, smiling, with us tangled together like two sleeping cats in a basket.

I extricate myself carefully, her undershirt-clad chest slowly falling, then rising to the confines of the body jacket: greenish-gray, 101-Dalmatian-printed, Velcro-secured. From a distance it looks like a slightly wonky, calico-print corset, stretching from pits to tailbone, trussed up in front. It wouldn't look out of place with a can-can skirt. It's even kind of cute. She thinks so, too.

I am delighted and relieved that, after the initial weeks of sore, itchy, red, dry skin, uncomfortable tightness, worrying that classmates might tease, and sadness, she has taken to wearing the brace just fine. Better than fine: one recent bedtime, all three special, seamless undershirts being still in the dryer, she became very upset at the suggestion she sleep without it: Don't you know that my back is growing at night, and I have to wear it every night? Every single night! She's committed, with all her might.

I kiss her eyes and cheeks, stare at her dignified, sleeping face and plan a Treatment Salon of my own: it will start with a trip to someplace full of wonderfully-scented samples for her to sniff, and end, I hope, with a jumble of legs and arms and a happy, slumbering, extraordinary girl. This time she gets the treatment.

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions

Three things that have my attention

Now that the jet-lag is over (more about 10 days in Tokyo with my 12 year-old son later), there are three things on my mind.

Thing One: finish the Humatrope Collar (I think that's what it calls itself)

This is the very most pressing, yet the most impossible of the projects. What's stopping me? A lesson with Blossom, which I can't manage, time-wise, until August, without the help of a whole village.

Still not sure what to do with these bits...

At Blossom's I will learn to make cords to lace up the back of the strictly couture-method, boned, embroidered, beaded corset I've been working on since the fall. It's been a fascinating labour of love, but I admit to being relieved that the end is in sight. A few more hours of beading (an excellent activity for waiting through parkour lessons), make the ties, then insert the lining, make the hand-worked eyelets (using a porcupine quill, no less!), make and attach two beaded tassels, and ta-da! Finished! Blossom says make the garment and the appropriate occasion to wear it will present itself. Maybe; I am happy enough just to make it - I'll learn anything Blossom wants me to know.

I will later apply these principles to make the closure of the collar. I envision two exquisite, beaded, be-tasselled ties hanging down the back, attached to the garment with buttons. This might be where the lavender and light green protective needle caps come in...

Butterfly buttons found in two different boxes of OSF donations. 
Thank you for saving these for me

The gorgeous, glass and metal, butterfly-entrapped buttons were acquired from two separate boxes of donations at Our Social Fabric. I didn't notice I had a pair until an intense sorting of my button boxes after my son left for military boarding school, and I turned his bedroom into a (temporary) sewing room. I learned to transform, with swift efficiency, a den of Lego, Nerf guns, and items needed to modify them, into a functional, airy, organized sewing room, complete with cutting table, ironing board, room for my serger, and a cork board. And vice versa. In the 10 months he was gone I made that transformation 4 times. 

Now I sew in the dining room. Or should I say, we occasionally eat in the sewing room. I gave away the dining room table, painted the bee balm red walls a creamy white (thanks, Erika for the paint), and put the dishes in the basement. My curtains are a dark pink, bobbled, early 70s, off-grain travesty. I have a hand-me-down clothes rack and piles of projects to be sewn. My sewing room is awesome.

So, no Humatrope collar for a month or two, but in the interim, there is

Thing Two: make a Perfect Nightie for my daughter

My daughter likes to twirl, wearing a long, full, swirly nightgown. Who doesn't? I think most people enjoyed it at some point in their lives, and I have a theory that the sexes will never be equal until we are all free to twirl, whenever, wearing whatever comfortable, swirly garment we choose.

Manly, yes, but I like it, too!

The best garment for twirling, according to my daughter, has the following characteristics:

• it has a full, long skirt, almost to the floor. A skirt that grazes the floor is the best, but for going upstairs, ankle-length is safer, even if you always remember to hold the skirt up with one hand and hold on to the banister with the other; 
• it has long sleeves, with elastic at the wrist to keep them from creeping up while sleeping; 
• there are no buttons, but there are ribbons, bows, cheetah print fleece fabric and definitely some dog-ish element. 

It will be a delight to create this dream-come-true for my daughter from the length of cotton, tie-dyed by her at Dunbar Summer Day Camp* last year. The hardest part will be figuring out how to make boxer dog pockets from cheetah print fleece...
*the best place in town for supported day camp, in my opinion

Components for Twirling Nightie Perfection

Thing Three is a real distraction. It is jumping up and down in front of me, waving its arms and shouting, "Yoohoo! Oh, yoohoo Mr. Kotter! Pick me! Pick me!" It's my garden, in need of attention, a good tidying up and a whole lot of loving. Or, more accurately, I need it.

Hand-me-down garden 

I have in mind a series of photos and short pieces about the various plants that have made their way to my garden (doesn't that sound exciting). A few of the plants were purchased, but most are orphans, abandoned, like most things I'm attracted to. Some came from seed collected in the neighbourhood on long walks, pushing a stroller, desperately attempting to lull a frantic, crying baby to sleep. This is when my love of gardening really began. I started noticing flowers and plants that had never registered before: euphorbia, hellebore, grape hyacinth and snowdrops preceding rhododendrons, preceding the crazy, huge, blue mophead hydrangeas that blew my mind when I moved to Vancouver in 1985 to attend UBC.

It was August when I came, just in time for a week or two of fun before school (and the rain) began. The audacity of the massive blue flowers stunned and delighted me. I knew I was home.

Sometime during my determined, distressed march through the seasons, I started noticing stirrings of plant lust within me. I began looking for my favourites in yards and alleys along my many routes. I anticipated their blooms*. As I trudged along, glassy eyed, trying to tune out the crying that only enough time in the stroller (or sometimes, the car) could relieve, I planned where I might put them in my own garden, if I should ever take my hands off the buggy long enough to pick up a shovel.
*The highlight was the smell of the daphne odorata in February. I hovered so long and so often outside the fence of a particular house, deep-breathing to the point of dizziness the crisp, lemon-lilac-lavender scent that reminded me of a wonderful friend I left in Japan, that the owner came out to check me out. I finally bought two of my own, and planted them in containers, anticipating a probable move that still hasn't happened. One of the daphne bloomed its last this spring. Alas

A tiny twig chair, found in a pile of trash behind a church
near Trimble Park, slowly returns to the earth.

Almost all of my plants have a story, or a memory associated with them, happy or sad. My garden has a personality. I visit it, like I would a friend, miss it when I can't. We chat. It tells me what it needs, and I try to listen. It responds to me when I do, leaving me little surprises, as delightful as love notes or miniature salt and pepper shakers my mother tucked into my lunch bag when I was a kid. When I make a mistake, it lets me know, then usually forgives me. It makes me feel like a capable and competent person, and it gives me hope and confidence when motherhood seems like a futile, incomprehensible, surreal undertaking I'm sure I didn't sign up for. I take care of my garden, so I can take care of my family.

So I think what I'll do in my spare time* is hang out in the garden, writing. And on any rainy day until Blossom's lesson I will sew part of a perfect, swirly nightgown. I'm going to have so much fun!
*i.e. instead of doing unnecessary housework. Thank you, Mother-in-Law, for your advice years ago: nobody ever went to her grave wishing she'd done more housework

Humatrope 1: Ingredients

Humatrope 2: Test Swatch and Scoliosis Brace

Humatrope 3: Foundation, More Brace

Humatrope 4: Lost for Words
Humatrope 5: Hello Little Girl in the Bullet-Proof Vest

Humatrope 6: Three Distractions
Humatrope 7: From the 13th Floor
Humatrope 8/Sewing Tip 8: Tassel Tutorial