Craftsy

I can make things. I have made costumes for the large casts of very complicated theater pieces; I have made cakes. I have made leather underwear and vampire's fangs and jewelry and jam and curtains and a large wooden work table and Gothy ball gowns and preserved lemons and clown suits and distressed tutus for dance pieces set to Birthday Party songs. I have made sculptures built entirely out of rusted nails dug up from my garden. I have made a garden. In recent years, though, I have made very little, and since two children arrived with a great deal fuss and fanfare I've been pretty much resting on my laurels. I made them.

They're two. How much longer will they be satisfied with the things I make now, like funny faces and mac and cheese? How long before I have to unearth my glue gun and get the sewing machine tuned up? I will have to make Halloween costumes, forts, masks, shoebox villages, fairy wings, bead necklaces, funny hats, dioramas, volcanos, rocket ships, and doll beds, at least. I'd better enjoy it.

I have no proof of this, never have quit making things before and then started up again, but I'm going to try convincing myself that not making things is like not exercising— you get very resistant and forcing yourself do that thing becomes nearly unimaginable but it'll probably feel pretty good once you get started.

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