Our lives this past year haven’t been easy. Mihiretu had a terrible time in
kindergarten at the public school, ergo Mae and Lana had a terrible time at
said school. Your brother throwing
himself to the black-top in screaming terror during an all-school fire drill
isn’t a recipe for social success it turns out. Therapy all the way around.
This year we find ourselves in three different schools. Mae started at the public middle school
last week. Lana found a safe spot
among some key friends at a small private school in Fairfax. And Mihiretu is at a Steiner-inspired
school in Sausalito; calming colors, no bells. While this has proved to be logistically difficult (three
kids, three start times, three end times, with miles between them), they seem
infinitely happier. They each have
space to be themselves in an environment that suits them.
I started a business in June. A bit counterintuitive, I realize. Three young kids, one of whom has suffered trauma, therapy
appointments to coordinate. But
I’m finding this work is giving me a little space of my own.
I have always sewn.
I come from a long line of seamstresses. My maternal grandmother emigrated from Romania to support
her family as a seamstress in the New World. She ended up having three children in quick succession and
succumbing to depression and pneumonia in short order but no matter. She sewed. My mother sewed.
I sew.
I make quilts, I make clothes. Most recently, I’ve gotten into upcycling. I find old cashmere sweaters at
Goodwill, haggle with the cashiers (“There’s a hole here under the arm and it’s
quite pilly? Could you come down
from $12?”) and bring the buggers home to wash them, felt them, cut them up and
make something new. Blankets,
scarves, hats, sweater-coats. I
find vintage quilt-tops at flea markets.
These are the pieced together beginnings, not yet a blanket, abandoned
as much as a century ago. I clean
them up, mend them, then finish the job some long ago granny started. I layer the top with batting and a back
and hand-quilt it. A labor of love
– it takes forever – but I adore it.
I carry a basket with me everywhere and pull out the current quilt to
work on at odd moments – playdates, school pick-ups, wherever. I make messenger bags out of vintage
European grain sacks, little girl dresses out of used men’s t-shirts, dog bowl
stands out of old wooden fruit crates, summer dresses out of antique German
nightdresses.
In May, a store opened in Fairfax, our little town. It’s called The Garage and it’s a
design collective. Housed in an
old Volkswagen repair shop (hence the name), it’s a mélange of different work;
handmade jewelry, handcrafted leatherwork, vintage finds salvaged and repaired,
on and on. And now, in the midst
of this loveliness, is The Utility Room.
That’d be me. I work behind
the counter a few hours a week but mostly my work is finding and making. I’m busier than I’ve probably ever been
– a typical evening might find me simultaneously packing school lunches,
ironing a t-shirt dress and rewiring an old rotary phone for resale. I’m busy but I’m happy. The kid’s world changed for the better
and so did mine.
I think a lot about Virginia Woolf’s idea of having a room
of one’s own. I don’t actually
have that. I have a high counter
the length of my living-room that’s home to my sewing machine, my serger, my
computer, my cashmere, my quilt-tops.
I don’t have a physical room but suddenly I have mental room, I have the
Utility Room. I have a thing
that’s just mine. I’m not just the
support staff for Ben and the kids.
I love being a mother. I
love it more than anything. But I
also love having work that’s my own.
I got my first paycheck recently since my last acting check
in 1999. I used some of it to buy
shop-girl shoes, a pair of bright blue clogs. Work shoes.
Because, between drop-offs and pick-ups, between Trader Joe’s and
laundry, between making beds and making dinner, there’s a little slice of time that’s
mine, that’s work.
