Two years ago I began working on a baby quilt for my great-niece. She's a year and a half old now, and I'm still working on it. Why is is taking so long? I've pieced it all by hand. That's right, I'm stitching over 400 hand-cut, English paper pieced hexagons together for the top of this bad boy.
I've often said I must've been on a special brand of crack when I decided to take on this project. I had to set it aside for several months while I worked on other projects and for my own sanity. It's piddly work, I'm not going to lie. To top it off, my other niece had a baby a few months later. I haven't even bought fabric for his quilt yet. They're killing me, these girls.
Anyway, I brought it out from its box to work on it yesterday - for the first time in months - and realized why I did it. The work may be tedious and repetitive, but it's also meditative. I decided long ago that it would be larger than a crib blanket so that Claire could have it with her for many years, take it with her on sleep overs, wrap herself in it as she sits by the fire pit at my sister's log home.
As I make tiny stitches I think about the adventures this quilt will have, making forts, being a princess cape, picnics, laying out on the beach. I want this blanket to have a life, not just be some sort of heirloom stashed away in a box, which is why I'm making the stitches smaller than they probably need to be. This blanket is made for the long haul.
Which reminds me, I should probably get back to work on it.
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