We’re moving tomorrow.

Yes.

Tomorrow.

As in, in 24hrs I will be sitting the kids on top of the trunk of the car in a desperate bid to get it to actually close AND latch, regardless of wether that leaves the high chair, booster seat, pack n’ play, or my hair dryer in one piece. At which point, the neighbor across the way will probably come out for a smoke and lend her two-cents to the situation. And a hand. She’s kind like that – she’ll never let your car get towed, your packages get wet, or your car to depart with two toddlers clinging to the top of the trunk.

Tomorrow.

Dear. Gawd.

It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. We’ve already been here 368 days. Which is 3 days longer than I’ve been telling everyone we would be here. What can I say? We really like it.

This was always in the plan. Even before we set foot in the Middle of Nowhere, as Far North as you can get and not be considered a Canadian Moose gone a-wandering, we knew that we’d only be here a year.

And yet, somehow, it kind of snuck up on me.

Until I opened the fridge last week, and came face to face with 20 frozen, boneless, skinless, chicken breasts.

At which point it hit me dead on. The foot that is. And I decided it was finally time to prepare. So I repacked the boxes we never unpacked. And threw all the clothes the kids have out grown this month into another box. We cooked up one last batch of lobster rolls, and then went down the street to help the local ice cream shop clean out their freezer. Since, you know, ours was still full of chicken.

And then, since I still had an entire six days before the kids and I get the heck out of dodge and leave the Big Man to orchestrate the actual packing and moving of all of our worldly possessions, I decided it was the perfect time to get to work on making the Little Man a busy book.

That, my friends, is the beauty of paying someone else to pack up your shit FOR you. 

Or a sign that I might have a procrastination problem.

Potato, potato….

So I dug out the supplies I bought when this idea first hit me 3 months ago, and got crafty. For those of you who don’t know? I’m a closet crafter. I wouldn’t be caught dead at a scrapbooking party, partly because I think its secretly a cult…and partly because I’m just not ready for that level of guilt when facing down a pile of every single scrap of paper that’s come into this house just waiting to be burnished into a glittering memory eighteen months later. Seriously. If I want that kind of guilt, I can just go dust off the box of photos from the first three years of my marriage that are sitting, oh so patiently, right next to their pre-assigned, shrink-wrapped, albums. Or the Little Man’s baby book. Or the Little Miss’s baby book. Or. Or. Or.

Which is to say, I’d rather be that girl wandering around A.C.Moore/Michaels/JoAnne’s wondering where on earth they’ve managed to hide the rubber stamps and glitter glue this year.

Card Making. The occasional No-Sew blanket. Counted Cross-Stitch. And, if I ever get ambitious for more than a day at a time, the Little Man’s baby book. These are my kinds of crafts.

And, yes, it has been a decade and a half few years since my last major sewing project, I made a nearly straight Quillow back in my day. Surely a child’s busy book couldn’t be that much harder?

It’d be perfect. I’d sew together a dozen pages, bind it with some pretty ribbon, and get all crafty with some felt and a gallon of fabric glue. And by the time we set out on our 2week trek Down South, the Little Man would have a brand new busy book to keep his busy, picky, little hands occupied.

He’d love it. I’d love it. And perhaps he’d be so busy with it, he’d completely forget his plan to shred every single book, magazine, window sill, or cardboard box he came in contact with.

Until he managed to pick apart every last fabric-glued pieces and stuff it into his sweet, sweet chimpmunk cheeks to save for later.

So about 30 minutes. Give or take a bead or three.

And just like that, the Little Man’s busy book became my busy book.

And I have been busy with it ever since.

Busy pinning.

Busy re-pinning.

Busy sewing.

Busy resewing.

Busy cursing.

Busy pulling the needle out from under my fingernails.

Busy begging the Big Man, Mr. I-Got-An-A-In-Sewing-And-Never-Forgot-How to please, please come fix my sewing machine.

Busy regretting the fact that I already put the Little Man’s name on this busy, busy book. And thus? Will be doing this again next year. Same Bat Time. Same Bat Channel.

And if any one asks, I’m just going to tell them the Little Man helped….

They’ll believe that, yes?

{ 3 comments }

Krystyn July 13, 2012 at 12:12 pm

What a cool idea…and I had no idea you were moving. Hope it went/goes well.

NSC July 13, 2012 at 9:28 am

Good luck on the move…I’m proud of you on the little man’s book. At least you can get your machine out of its box in one piece. I just assume when I hear people talking about sewing now they do it by hand. Because thats how I roll….

Bahnie July 12, 2012 at 10:14 am

It looks adorable! I have a book like that from my childhood days. It was called my quiet book. I’ll have to find it now for my little girl. Good times! And I feel you on the moving. We’re just waiting to be told we have 20 days to get out do our house can be fixed. Have started any packing? Beyond one bookshelf nope. And I’ll have to do it myself as the hubby has schoolwork. Oy. I hope you have a safe trip! Kiss those babies for me!

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