My brother and me

Here we are again.  Time to dust off the ol’ sewing machine and hope it still works. Time to re-acquaint myself with all of it’s very basic functions.  Time to read the instructions on how to thread that stupid bobbin.  Again.  String that through the maze.  Where is the on/off switch?  How do I reverse?  Hopefully this knob does what I think it does...…

As I start to tinker with things, my daughter wanders over “What does that ancient writing mean?” she asks.  I’m trying to figure that out Ru, it doesn’t make sense to me either.  (it’s probably making fun of us.) 

And what has brought me here?  Halloween.  Halloween is literally the only reason I have to pull my sewing machine out of whatever corner I found to stuff it into -after last years costumes were completed, of course- and subject myself to the humiliation of having to ask my husband if he knows how to thread a bobbin.  That’s something that happens at my house.  (It's a good thing one of us is mechanically minded!)     

Halloween was my favorite holiday growing up.  (Why wouldn't I love a holiday that meant I could dress up as anything I wanted and people wouldn’t look at me weird?  Also, candy.) But as a mom I see it coming and begin to feel that little knot of anxiety rise in my chest. It’s approaching, but I postpone preparations because... I’m normal, and I don’t shoot incredible crafts and amazing works of art from my fingertips at will.  I dread it.  Halloween means pumpkin carving and spiced candles, and it means that all of my favorite candy can be purchased in miniature so I don’t feel guilty eating 30 of them (thats why they make them so small!), but also it means… “I want to be a wetch! No, a pwincess! No, a chocat donat wif spwinkles! No, a cupcape.” and then… “I dust want to be a wetch. Dis is good.” Again. (20 points if you speak toddler.) 

I talked my son into being a card.  Like an actual card.  He wanted to be a Pokemon character, but he kept changing his mind, so I suggested that he be a Pokemon card.  (“How amazing would that be?!”  “You'd be the only one.”  “Your friends will think you are the coolest!”)  He thought it was cool at first, but then tried to back out.  However, when applied with the right amount of guilt (I have four other kids to outfit after all), we were back to two pieces of foam board and little bit of rope.  Best. Costume. Ever.

I want to be crafty SO badly.  I always think I can do crafty things, but in the end I just get frustrated because it never turns out the way I imagine it.  A lot of my frustration stems from the feeling that I can never find exactly what my brain is telling me I want.  And I can’t help what my brain is telling me!  And also, I have impossibly high standards, according to my husband.  I like what I like!  I am what I am. 

I have drawers full of fabric, patterns, various colors of fringe (because everything should have fringe), buttons, elastic, and all kinds of thread.  I love the idea of making dresses and skirts and pillows and curtains and things I made up, but at the end of the day i’m lucky if I’ve brushed my teeth.  It’s just easier to buy a skirt than it is to make one.  Not everyone feels that way, and there, I’m sure, are a lot of people who find sewing… fulfilling? Or something.  But I just. can’t. even.  Not right now.  Not where I’m at. 

And therein lies the issue.  I have no problem in theory buying these costumes so that I don’t have to actually lift a finger to put them together, but in my humble opinion, the exorbitant cost of an outfit that is made from the flimsiest fabric in existence, should be a literal crime.  I am not made for sewing, but I can’t justify the insane cost of something that will rip after one evening of walking.  

So, every halloween my Brother XL-3750 and I are reunited.  We struggle to re-learn how each works, me with the afore mentioned threading of the bobbin (it seriously doesn’t matter how many times I’ve read the instruction manual), and the sewing machine to remember that sometimes I hit him because he isn’t doing what the voice in my brain is saying, but is doing only that which my hands command.  Also, apparently my sewing machine is a him.  Maybe that makes me saying things like “Let’s thread your bobbin.” seem less disturbing.  Or more disturbing?  Something.  Either way, he and I have a complicated relationship. 

Until next year my friend.  Until then. 

P.S. Most of these costumes came from our dress up box or the thrift store. I literally added little bits of material here and there to make the things I had, work.  Just didn't want to give the impression that the clothes were constructed by me.  That would be inaccurate.