Oooh, she’s a crafty one
Some time ago, a good friend moved to Cincinatti (I think it was Cincinatti. Ohio, anyway) and emailed in horror and triumph that she had been invited to her first scrapbooking party and had managed to avoid going.
See, it’s a problem with that word, “crafts.” It either brings up images of lanyard weaving at summer camp or of bored suburbanites placating their frustrated creativity with stickers. I’m not at camp, nor a suburbanite and the only use for stickers as far as I can see is to bribe my children to pee in the toilet rather than in the closet (or on the table, the bed, each other). Still, I’m pretty crafty. My recent thing is turning Ikea mosquito netting into play tents (although the current star and planet-themed one is turning out a bit girly for even Daniel’s broad masculine tastes due to the unfortunate use of purple, rather than blue, dye). We also Jackson Pollocked the kitchen table, but that was more a case of “what shall we do today?”
It’s fun, but I think the urge to do projects is more basic than just fun; it’s like my mother loving to do laundry (a predeliction I have not inherited). The rewards in parenting are long term. VERY long term. You plug away at this or that and in thirty years you’ll know whether repeating “Say please!” a thousand times a day until you’re ready to pull your own arms off has had any lasting effect. A project like building a bookshelf or sewing pjs, well, you do it. You finish it. You see it. It’s finished, completed, done and dusted. Palpable, evident results. You write it down on your list for the satisfaction of crossing it off and then, something tangible under your accomplishment belt, you can get on with moulding your larvae into productive members of society and look forward to the day decades hence when your daily conversation will rarely include repeated pleas of “Don’t lick your sister’s face” or “Please don’t put your peas up your nose” or “Darling, your underpants go under your shorts.”
