It was like a floodgate. So much just pushing on the doors, screaming to bust through and wreak havoc on anything in its path. I let her in, I really let her in the sewing room and now I can't keep her out. No longer content to arrange and make a mess of my jars of scraps she is now turning to me stash. She pulls out her favourite colours, determines just the right combination, then grabs my embroidery scissors, and hacks away. She's discovered fabric glue and fabric markers. With no input from me, and little regard for my fabric she is churning out butterflies and more.
It was one thing to let her pick and play when making her quilt. I still had some margin of control over that. Now? All I can manage to keep her from doing is hacking through some favourite fabrics with random cuts down the middle. But it rips at my quilter's gut and every now and then my heart, the heart that is tied to obsessions with fabric gets broken. She listens to me when I vehemently insist that she leave THAT fabric alone, then turns around and insists herself that she knows what she is doing and won't wreck my fabric because she is making something more beautiful.
She does this while I sew, while I write, while I cut fabric for her sister's quilt, while I play around on the internet. She won't touch my scraps, preferring to attack the bins of fabric in my stash. Did I mention the heart palpitations? Then I remember what Amanda said, It's All Just Fabric.
So we've had repeated discussions about cutting from the corner, not the middle, and how Mama gets final say on whether she can use that particular fabric. And when she wanted a big piece on which to attach a swarm on butterflies I let go and said that it would make a perfect garden.
