The backstory

Firstly, I want to give a massive thank you to everybody who commented on my last post and sent messages and emails of support. I've been overwhelmed by your kindness and it's helped me more than you know. Although I'm embarrassed to show myself so raw and I'm conscious that this is partially a business blog *waves at customers who just want to see some fecking clothes* I'll give a little bit of a backstory about how we've gotten here.

I started going for therapy for PND a couple of months after Jamie was born. I didn't know this at the time (I found out recently when I was wrapping up my therapy) that the phrase 'failure to bond' was scattered across my file. Maybe it's true or maybe it was perceived because obviously when I was there it wasn't to discuss the joys of motherhood, I don't really know. I do know that if I did have a hard time bonding with him it's not anything I had control over, no one has ever wanted to bond with him more than me. You're right, I've never harmed him, he has always been cared for, I've never locked him in the the cupboard under the stairs because we don't have any stairs in our flat I wouldn't do that.

Just after he turned one he started the crazy behaviour. I was due to go back to work so he was put into a lovely nursery in the mornings and he was the picture of sweetness and light while there. The staff loved him, he was cheerful and engaging and delightful. But from the second we got home to the second Steven came home from work, he was an animal. He screamed and slithered around the floor for hours in a rage and nothing I could do would make him stop. He didn't want me to touch him, he didn't want me not to touch him, and he couldn't be distracted from it. Nothing would make him stop. No one else would ever see him this way. He never did it a nursery, he never did it in front of Steven (at least not until later), never did it in front of other family members or friends. Through the PND centre we managed to get referred to the play therapist but he never did it there so she could only take my word of how bad it was. It was truly our Dirty Secret, it was our time together that was tortured and fraught. For years. The most random things would set off hours and hours of screaming and writhing on the floor; I took Maia's jacket off before his, he wanted me to walk back to the childminder's so he could say goodbye one more time. It was really, really hard for me to empathise with psychosis brought on by not having any apples.

We went to the play therapist together on and off for two years, firstly for the hysteria and then later for the obsessive behaviour, the inability to cope with change or disappointment, the food issues, the sleep issues, the constant running commentary of everything he's doing, the incessant questions. All of these behaviours are born of anxiety. And that anxiety is born of separation / bonding issues. And that's why I feel responsible. It's a lot better now, his episodes are now only once or twice a month and can often be reduced in length merely by me saying, 'I know how disappointed / angry / sad you are about fill in the blank with something nonsensical and that's okay'. But I worry about the fact he spent a considerable part of his first three years consumed with anxiety and how it has affected him.

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This aching... part two

Just look at their expressions. I think this is one of my favourite pictures because this is how I want it to be: he so fierce and protective, she so proud and secure to be in her brother's embrace.

I worry about him constantly. I listen to how well his peers communicate, how children even younger than him hold conversations that make sense. I read about mums who are talking about the big issues with their four year olds, and compare it to the remedial conversations we have. His talking has come on so much in the last year, but so much that he says just doesn't make any sense. Heading down to the soft play centre yesterday, he kept asking what colour it is. I said that I guess it is yellow, because it has a yellow sign and the mats are yellow. But still he asks, he asks a dozen times until I'm not sure I've gotten the answer right, that I didn't understand what he wanted to know. And then, 'Is it going to get bigger?' I told him I don't understand his question, that it won't get bigger, it is what it is. But still he asks, a dozen times, and I worry.

Once at the soft play, there were two little girls (also four) playing together in the ball pit. Jamie is automatically familiar with people and joined in the game they were playing, which was fine for a time until they decided they didn't want to play with him. 'Let's get away from this boy,' one said. 'Yes, we don't want to play with him'. They scuttled off with Jamie in pursuit. 'Come on, Maia, the girls are going this way!' But Maia knows when people are being mean, and she sat and pouted in a defiant way. He continued pursuing them, trying to engage with them. I got him to come out and take a drink and the girls came out too to complain to their carer that he wouldn't leave them alone, that he pushed in front of them, that they didn't want to play with him. All four went back in, the girls openly mean, Jamie oblivious, Maia mostly impervious. Coming down the slide, one of the girls pinched Maia's back and at the bottom she stood in front of the girl, said 'No!' and pushed her in the chest. I know I shouldn't be proud of this, but I was. And I don't worry about her, she can take care of herself. Steven says it's better that Jamie doesn't realise when people are mean to him, that it won't hurt him if he doesn't know, but I'm not sure.

I told Steven how much I worry about him. Steven says that he heard on the radio about how all the most important stuff in child development happens in the first three years and maybe we just didn't do a good enough job. I almost got out of the car because this upsets me so much, not only because those first three years were spent with me, but because I've read those studies too. I remember just after his third birthday crying so hard to my therapist that those precious three years were over and I'd got it so wrong, that the damage was done and I screwed up an actual person, forever. That he'll struggle in life because I didn't do a good enough job. Late at night I hear him pad down the hall and climb into bed next to me. He curls around my head, he strokes my hair, he holds on to my ear and breathes into my neck likes he wishes he can become part of me again. I kind of wish it too.

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Retro car hoodie

I love making things for people I 'know' (even if only in the cyber bloggy sense) so I was excited when Nicknackynoo asked me to make a hoodie for her youngest boy. And even more excited the it's made out of one of my favourite fabric, Echino retro cars. But less excited that it's the last of this fabric in my stash, but I know it's going to a good home....


It's lined with snuggly red flannel with red ribbing and a red zip.


Photos were taken as I went so when (if?) I get some spare time the tutorial will follow and hopefully another pattern will be on its way!

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I make Christmas dreams come true. Fact.

I'm a lot like Santa Claus (if Santa Claus was a troublemaker and awesome at Photoshop). For those of you not on Twitter, here's what I got up to yesterday. For those of you who are on Twitter and saw the picture last night but didn't know why I did it, here's why.


What makes this sooo special is that not only have I saved Beadypool from having to buy her husband a Christmas present, but also this is the only picture of her on the whole internet. So now when anyone googles 'pictures of Beadypool' they're going to say, 'she looks like a lot of fun' and buy loads of her jewellery. So I'm helping her business too. You're welcome.

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Baby's got back

The quest to make underwear that fits Maia continues. Although she is only two, this girl has a serious bubble butt. She's wearing store bought pants for five year olds and still reveals about two inches of crack at any given time. If they're tall enough to offer coverage, they're too baggy and give her wedgies. No one likes wedgies.


So I'm making these pants cut higher in the back but curved for under her belly as this little Amazon also has a Buddha belly.


The legs are low-cut boxer brief style so there's no chance of wedgies.


I'm showing you this picture not so you can laugh at Jamie posing Zoolander style (although feel free), but because I wanted you to see how differently the two of them are built. The pants that he is wearing are the same exact size as hers. Note how he doesn't fill his out quite as much...


But while we're on the subject of kid's pants, why are British boy briefs so freaking tiny? They have about a two inch rise at the front and a three inch rise at the back and even though Jamie is tiny they're miniscule. So I'm definitely going to make him some more. He deserves some dignity too. Although whether moose or sausage dog pants are dignified is debatable...

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Ask the expert

All day long I'm asked questions. Why? Wot you doing? Why? Where we going? Why? As her newest developmental milestone, Maia has taken to parroting back the last word of everything I say as an incredulous question. Like this:

Me: For the love of God, stop acting like lunatics!
Maia: Lunatics?!
Me: Yes, lunatics!
Maia: Lunatics?!
Me: Yes.
Maia: Why?
Jamie: Wot you doing?
Me: Crying.
Maia: Crying?!
Me: Yes.
Maia: Why?
Me: You guys are so relentless.
Maia: Relentless?!
Me: Yes, relentless.
Jamie: Mum, are you happy?
Me: Yes, ecstatic.
Maia: Ecstatic?!
I run screaming from room.

And the curiosity of a four year old knows no bounds. My favourite conversation with Jamie yesterday went something like this:

Jamie: Mum, do you have a wee man?
Me: No, because I'm a girl.
Jamie: Does Maia have a wee man?
Me: No, she's a girl too.
Jamie: Does Maia have a bum?
Me: Yes.
Jamie: Do you have a bum?
Me: Yes, everybody has a bum.
Jamie: Even Daddy?
Me: Yes, even Daddy.
Jamie (thinking hard): Which do you like more, doing wee or doing poo?
Me (thinking hard about which one answer would be less mortifying when he inevitably tells everyone at nursery): I dunno Jaim, it's too hard to call.

It's not just the kids. Yesterday Steven asked, 'Should I grow a mustache for November?' This question isn't as strange as it initially sounds, November is apparently Movember. Where men grow mustaches to raise the profile of prostate cancer. I initially vomited and said no but then Twitter said yes and I realised I could blog about the mustache every single day so I said yes but now he's chickened out with some rubbish about being taken seriously at work. Because he works in an office, not as a porn star, so mustaches might not be taken seriously.

It's gotten me thinking. All these questions, all day long. I must be some sort of expert, like Dear Deirdre or Dear Abby or maybe even Mystic Meg. I bet there are loads of questions I can answer for you guys. So please email me any of your questions to theexpert@kitschycoo.co.uk and I'll round them up and answer them to the best of my abilities. They can be personal like 'When did you realise that you were so awesome at Photoshop?' or esoteric like 'What's the difference between Dida and cracker Dida?' or I can offer advice like 'How can I stop people from staring at me on planes?'. Or maybe you just want to know if someone has a wee man or a bum. Because I am the expert on that. Please do send me some questions though, because I'll be really embarrassed if no one does and I'll probably have to delete my blog or something.

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The synchronicity of pants

Pants: Noun/Adj. Nonsense, rubbish, bad. From the standard British English of pants, meaning underwear; also a variation on 'knickers'. E.g."The first half was pants but I stayed until the end and it was actually a great film." [1990s]

I've been feeling pants recently. Not physically, but emotionally. The cold horizontal rain has started, it's dark about 41 hours a day, business is really slow, the kids fight like rabid badgers and everything is making me mad. All I want to do is lie on the couch and watch Fringe all day because it's free. And awesome.


So I'm feeling pants. And now I'm making them too.

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