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Time Flies When You’re Busy.

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Which is sort of lame, because, when aren’t we busy? Stealing an hour of peace and quiet is just as important for busyness as… well… being busy.

Anyway, Juniorette started crawling this week. She is not even 7 months old yet, but whenever she sets her eyes on her brother’s train set, she immediately starts pulling herself, army style, towards it. Seeing her grab and bite into a piece of rail or a whole train is hilarious. I’m really glad Junior can’t read yet, because otherwise I’d be in great trouble when he reads this. He goes insane when he sees her touching his precious trains.

Other things that have kept me busy were cooking new foods for Juniorette, who is now eating two meals of solids every day, and getting started on sewing a fantastic shirt for Junior. I got the pattern from Oliver ans S.  Their patterns are simply adorable, remind me next time to upload the dress I made for Juniorette from one of their free patterns. The fabric I’m going to use is exclusively quilters’ “pilot to co-pilot” you can see in the picture here:  which you can’t see because I can’t find a link that will stick the picture into the post. Just google “exclusive quilters pilot to co-pilot”. It’s the one with the cream background and lots of antique planes.

Tomorrow: some baby food. Interested at all?

Sophie.

Update:  I was told that googling the above phrase just brings up this post and nothing else. Try viewing this link, then:  my pinterest.  Also, I forgot to say, I got this fantastic piece at www.pissott.co.il, which is where I get most of my fabrics.

Lucky 20.

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Nineteen posts. 19. That’s how long it took me to kill my blog. I should really start over, maybe write about something I do on a more regular basis than crafting. Like wiping baby tucheses*.

So here goes:

Hia all! I’m Sophie. I’m a part time crafter, part time idler, part time crazy, part time cynic, full time double-header mom. Yes indeedy! at 36 I suddenly find my juvenile self a mother of two. The responsible adult. The woman who fears not puke nor snot nor technicolor poop. I hope I’ll still be able to contribute some trifles about cooking and crafting and suchlike, but I think it’s better to post about my kid singing both verses of “twinkle twinkle little star” than not posting at all. I mean – this is the internet. If you’re not there, you’re not anywhere. Or sommink.

I’m not as funny or as witty as my favorite woman bloggers, but hey! I more desperate for human contact!

So hang in there. I’ll see you tomorrow.

*tuches:   butt.

p.s. I’ve decided to freshen up the looks of the blog – you know, new clothes make a new woman blah blah, anyhow – I’d appreciate comments or advice for looks improvement. Of the blog’s face. My own face is already as improved as it’s gonna get.

Everybody’s Doing It

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Yes, they are. I swear to you, and I can even back my words, if you push me hard enough for linkographic evidence. I think that’s the reason I haven’t done it until now. See, I have this thing: If everybody’s doing it, than I don’t. Or I do, but much much later, when it’s no longer and issue to be done by everyone. I even joined Facebook only when it became a boring, mundane thing, where you friend your parents and your in-laws (hey, G!) and really have to keep your language.

The only reason I’m doing it at all is because of all the wonderful blogging material that is going to waste by not doing it. Shin said she didn’t think I’d like it, because I’m such a private cat and don’t like to be told stuff or asked questions, and it’s sort of true, but on the other hand, I WRITE A BLOG. I mean, I guess I’m only private for a given value of “private”.

This is also a sort of a reason why I haven’t written all that often in the past few months. It’s hard to post about stuff when there’s this big lump of thing stuck in your brain with the title “not to use on the blog”. It kind of darkens the path to writinghood, sort of thing.

So, here goes.

What? What is it that everybody’s doing but me, I hear you ask? Oh, right. The thing everybody’s doing is tell the world about important personal stuff. Specifically, this:

Junior is about to become a big brother, and this time I’m not talking about getting a new cat. It’s the other kind, where you get good skin, excellent nails, and lush, supple hair, on your head as well as on the rest of your body. Yep, I’m it. Pregnant. There, the secret is told to the world of internets.

And I forgot all the funny bits I had to say about that.

My son is shaming me.

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I never thought I’d say this about my kid before he turned 15. OK, 13. That he’s shaming his only mama. He’s only a bit older than 2, you know. Anyhow, we were at the shoe store the other day, unsuccessfully trying on pairs of sandals, but non the size that will last him more than a month. So after half an hour of a lot of patience on his side, I took him for a much deserved ice cream. We proceeded into the local McD, and got ourselves a cone of soft serve ice cream each. He finished his very nicely, being a very devout ice cream eater, and ate some of mine, too. On our way out we stopped at a table where a friend of his from daycare was sitting with her parents, having some kiddy meal. The friend’s mother offered him some corn nuggets and fries, while I protested “no, no, he just downed a whole ice cream!”. As I was speaking, he grabbed the nugget in one hand, and a french fry in the other and went on to gobble them up like there was no tomorrow. And then he asked for another fry, and for another and yet another. My son, who:

1. Just, as I said, ate a whole ice cream, plus some of mine.

2. Does NOT like potatoes, and never agreed to a french fry in his entire life.

Made me look like some disgusting person who doesn’t feed her kid, or at least doesn’t give him “treats”. Hah!

I did not know where to hide my face, no I did not. I could barely drag him out of there after he polished off a good part of the little girl’s fries, and all the families there were staring at us because it was, well, a small place and my kid has a big presence.

Next time I’m taking a cash box with me and am going to charge people money to look at us.

P.S. After we got home he had another supper. My son, the bottomless pit. I think we’re adopted.