I always gave my children's clothing away, as soon as they outgrew them. However, I could never part with their flanelette PJ's, usually because they were very well worn and often falling to pieces. I couldn't put them in the rag bag, that would be sacreligious. You see, they strike a chord in my soul.
Pyjama's seem to be a bit more intimate than other items of clothing. Call me a romantic flowery fool, but they kind of carry your dreams. So, I have kept my babies PJ's for 19 years as well as my own for for a long, long time. Tucked away in cupboards, they have been moved from place to place in spring clean outs, but never thrown away...I was always going to do something with them.
At one stage I began a rag rug, but it fell to bits and was very hard to clean. I have now decided to make a patchwork quilt. I have made the design quite large, so that it won't take forever and a day to complete.
I don't think that the colours will be fabulous, a mix between pastels and maroons and navy. Also the patterns are mixed, with moo cows, funny monkeys, pirates, rocket ships and stripes.Quite jarring really.I don't think it will be aesthetically pleasing at all. But as I look at those fabrics I can see, like yesterday the different stages and stories of my children, from crawling to getting their first job.
I can imagine me in years to come, as an old granny sitting on the couch with a grandchild on my knee, the quilt spread over the two of us, pointing out particular fabrics and telling related stories. Hmph, on second thoughts methinks I have read too much L. M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott.
The scene will most probably be me, old granny, with wild grey afro hair (I have given up on the colour) with a threadbare old quilt wrapped around my shoulders and trailing to the ground. I am limping and bent over. (I should have got that knee reconstruction, and yoga never helped my back) I am chasing a screaming child around a house, room to room, desperately clawing the air. "Come back," I croak, "this is your heritage!" I fall to the ground, defeated, back against the wall, repeatedly whispering "This is your heritage. This is your heritage" whilst picking at what remains of the fabric of my life.
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