Really Very Pretty

I've recently just finished making the Doctor's quilt. It took such a long time, and I have such immense respect for those who make things with their hands.

Which is why I love this Kantha range that's new-ish to Freedom. Hand made in India, no two pieces are the same. There are throws, cushions and bolsters. I love the look of them layered all together, the nuances in each piece, the stories that those stitches can tell. Plus they are perfect for Winter, for layering onto your couch, or over the end of your bed. There's nothing I love more than snuggling under the blankets - layers and layers of them, whereas Matt protests, I feel like I am in my cocoon.

In fact, our bedding is a constant tussle with us. A bone of contention in our marriage. I pile them high, Matt prefers just a doona. I like an old school bed. Matt likes just a doona. I like bunkering down under 87 layers. Matt likes just a doona.

Someone talk some sense into the man.



Stuff. On My Bedside.

I have a mountain of stuff on my bedside table. Actually, a lot of it is Matt's stuff, because I decided we were swapping sides. Why? Because every single night one of the smalls would come in and wake me up. Every night. I got so exhaustipated that I said we had to do a "side exchange". Much like being an exchange student in a foreign land, I am now sampling the delights that are the other side of world bed. As part of this exchange I have inherited a whole stack of Matt's books, art catalogues and reading matter. 


On his side are some disinfectant wipes that are still there since Tiny had the vomiting lurgy. And another stack of books and some dust bunnies. It's a home interiors photographic dream, quite frankly. 


But back to my side. I have my nightly must-haves. Hand cream (this Aesop hand cream was gifted to me sometime again, and my goodness, it is certainly one of my favourites). And Blistex. I HAVE to have lip balm on before I go to sleep. Or I can not, will not go to sleep. I know. Go figure.


It's all part of my nightly ritual.


I also have a stack of newspapers next to my bed. I still read the news old school. I like the smell of newspaper, I love a broadsheet, and I keep those weekend papers there for the week so I can suck out the marrow of the news for the week. 


I am crazy like that.


What's on your bedside? 

The 'Pants' Talk

Last week I took the Doctor into the dentist to have a filling. But we wont' talk about that right now.


What I want to write about is the fact that I had to have a firm 'pants' talk with Tiny.


My little friend Tiny does not like pants. Too tight. Too 'comfy'. Too too too - too pantish. Tiny doth protest the pant.


The day was long and the day was cold, so I advised Tiny to wear some leggings. In fact, she had some new polka dot leggings and oh my! They look so cute on her. Ridiculous how cute.


Tiny is an advocate for choosing her own outfits - ever since she was a wee babe. So I've come around to it, and mostly let her choose - except when it's inappropriate to weather or place. You can wear that sheer ballet skirt. But not to the supermarket. No one needs to see your knickers.


Sometimes I work out options for her - give her two pieces to choose from, then she's got some independence and feels like she's making that choice. And usually she'll comply. And then return to her bedroom while I am otherwise occupied, strip off and either emerge completely newd, or in another random outfit. Like when it was super chilly this week - she came out in a t-shirt and ballet skirt. Then went outside and told me she was cold - and quite literally turned purple. Funny that. 


So this day last week - she had a complete meltdown after getting dressed. And I felt cranky and fed up with the tussle. The constant tussle. The hussle and bussle of the pants. 


She threw the biggest wobbly (or lobbly as she would say) for at least half an hour. Crying. Screaming. Fluctuating between inconsolable and completely angry with me. I forced her limbs into warm clothes - and she went on. We finally got into the car, and she sobbed throughout the short drive to the train station. We were about to catch our train when I stood in the street with her and pointed out that everyone was wearing pants. Or stockings. Or tights. It was pants-on Wednesday. It would have been a funny conversation to overhear. 


She detests the pants. 
I am pro-pants. 
She detests shoes - and always points out pictures where fairies are barefoot. 
I try and find pro-shoe fairies. It is a constant shift. 
Will she? Won't she? 


She's a funny little person that Tiny. I don't want to quash out her individuality - but I do want her to be warm. It's a quandary.
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Last night I crawled into bed downbeat and exhausted. Tiny awoke with vomit covering her bed, her pyjamas. Then cried. And cried. And I stripped the bed while Matt put her in the shower. Gastro is a wicked beast. 


PS  - Check out this ace piece I was included in. I didn't know until one of the other ace bloggers let me know. How cool! 

When Small People Won't Go To Bed. And Steam Comes Out Your Ears.

I am like this hamster running on one of those wheels. Running. Running. Running. And getting nowhere fast. 


Tiny is totally punishing me lately. 


All week she's been a reluctant sleeper, there have been raised voices. There's been hollow threats. And a threat of punishment (and I struggle with this because I can't think of anyway to punish her - because her response is always so non-chalant).  Once she's finally wrestled down to sleep - I find myself in the middle of the night pushed to the edge of the bed - with no covers on me. Cold, uncomfortable, and with no pillow.


This week her bed linen had been changed after an accident, and had literally been replaced, when she came out to me and told me her bed was wet. 


She denied denied denied, then blamed it on the Doctor and said he wee'd on her bed. I told her that the Doctor didn't do it (because I know the Doctor better than she does), finally she admitted that no, the Doctor had nothing to do with it. Instead she had been playing with water on her bed, and now her doona was wet through. 


I was pretty cross. 


It was one of those nights when you're like a jack-in-a-box, up and down, up and down, putting the smalls back into bed. Then they come out again. And so on for around 15 minutes. Then the steam starts to pour out your ears, and you walk them back and tell them once more - don't come out again. It's late. It's bed time. 


So this is where we were. I stripped the bed again when there was an almighty crash. I peer into the Doctor's bedroom and he's inadvertently smashed his bedside lamp. Glass everywhere.


If someone was checking my blood pressure, I think that cuff thing they put on would have been torn to shreds as I turned into the Incredible Hulk. 


Seriously. The bed humdrum is killing me. And not softly. 
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Images - despite being totally unrelated were something that made the smalls and I laugh today. We went to visit my sister, Sarah at Calico + Ivy today, and en route to get some smoothies, we spotted a plane vapour trailing his way through the sky. 'Marry Me'. We stood with our mouths agape looking skyward, causing other pedestrians to do the same. By the time the pilot got to me the marry had blown away and looked like a mangled version of the word. Whoever commissioned that - I hope they got in quickly.