My Genetic Twitch

Occasionally I feel myself channeling one of my parents. Usually, when I say something really nerdy and then laugh at my own joke, I feel the need to touch my face and see if my dad's twitch is up there laughing with me. Or when I'm extremely friendly with someone that I don't really know, I look down at my cheerily waving hand to see if it's my mother's. Today it wasn't either one of those; today I did surgery on Rolly, Little's favourite stuffed dog, and I moved the boys' room around. Now before you start making assumptions, let me explain.

Yes, my sewing kit includes liquid stitch.

Fixing broken things always reminds me of my father. He could relink a broken necklace. He could super glue a shattered plate. And he was the one we went to when we needed sewing done. My mom claims that she used to cross stitch, but I don't believe her since I've never even seen her thread a needle. So today when I was resewing Rolly's head for the third time--he's well loved--I was thinking about my dad. I was also, incidentally, thinking about my mother-in-law and wishing that Rolly's head had waited to fall off until her superior sewing skills could reattach it to his plump and spotted body. Since it didn't (wait, that is), I reinforced my stitches with fabric glue this time--the tool of an inexperienced seamstress. I wonder if Dad ever had to do that. Do they have fabric glue in Indonesia?

My attempt to get the whole room in.
The dresser and bookshelf didn't make the cut.

Then I decided to move the boys' room around because Tiny can now reach the light switch from his crib and entertains himself by turning the fan off and then on and then off and then on and then...you get the picture...instead of taking his nap. And that reminded me of my mother because she has a furniture rearranging fetish. At least once a month she'd decide to move something (anything) around. When we moved into the kampung, she had to get creative since our rooms were really small and there was a finite number of possible furniture arrangements. Still, I've never seen anyone as handy at moving furniture as my mom. It still impresses me to see her insignificant 5'2" frame shove a couch around like her life depends on it. And she says she's not artistic... Anyway, when the Man and I got married, I warned him that these genes flowed in my veins (I'm not sure that's scientifically correct), and he made me promise that I would resist the urge unless I could give him fair warning since he frequently doesn't come home til after dark and isn't a fan of bruising his shins on a couch that wasn't there when he left earlier that morning. I have been very good about this until the last 3 months during which time I have rearranged the living room (admittedly with his help), guest room, and boys' bedroom, just because I could.


It made me happy on the inside. And a smidge nostalgic.