I don't know what came over me, exactly. It must have been my taste for danger, my quest for badass-ness, or my need for a challenge. Most likely, it is my destiny to make things as difficult as possible for myself.
What am I talking about? This darned baby quilt I have been working on. Facing and accepting the fact that I would not finish it in time for the shower, I decided to hand stitch the layers together before binding it rather than doing those little tie-thingies all over the place. Hand stitch. As in, me pushing a small needle up and down, back and forth between the layers of a crib-sized quilt. Me, a gal who has not been able to make a very straight stitch, like, ever. I think it is s.a.d.d., or stitching attention deficit disorder. I will be working it just fine, nice straight even stitches that are uniform in size and spacing and then all of a sudden my thread decides to take the scenic route for a few minutes. I catch myself, and then get back on course.
Halfway through the job, I admit that part of me wishes my craftwomanship was a bit more on the side of clean, crisp perfection. The other part, though, realizes that this is what hand-made is all about. Tiny (and some not so tiny) imperfections that tell us just a bit about the crafter. This kid, with any close-up observation of this quilt, will know that this particular quilter was a bit of a spaz. Maybe my daydreams and imagination will weave themselves in there a little bit on those wonky spots. One can only hope.