All my mental wranglings aside, I cannot seem to come up with an apt analogy for my current obsession  distraction.The official, generally accepted term for my condition fits on some levels, but is not an exact match. In this most recent flare up recurrence, I have also stumbled upon the hard evidence that not only is this catching, but contrasted with stomach flu, is an agreeable infection to have spread through the family. Nesting is a very real phenomenon in our home these days. My painting and cleaning, washing and sorting, organizing and arranging can be favorably compared to a mother bird feathering her nest. Making the place clean and comfortable for my newest fledgling might be recognized even by Mrs. Robin as  natural and proper preparations for the impending arrival. When engaged in this part of my "nesting" experience, I feel matronly and responsible. This is the way of mothering. In my minuscule limited experience with nesting birds, I have witnessed  mothering of the latter sort.  What I have never known, however, is the flip side of what I am experiencing: a mother bird tearing apart every inch of her nest, chucking and flinging with abandon. The larger the Goodwill pile , and the more full trash bags, the more fuel is dumped on my proverbial fire. While I should possibly be resting and storing up energy for labor,  this discarding and casting aside serves to kindle a maniacal gleam in my eye and energize me to waddle faster. I am unresolved as to which is the finest part of this season.  As much as I love the process of decluttering, I absolutely adore the results. I have been known to just go sit and gaze into a closet in the afterglow  of nesting. It is a glorious feeling! Now that my children are exhibiting symptoms of nesting, I am overjoyed.  Witnessing the willing, unsolicited Goodwill bags leaving their bedrooms is the stuff of motherhood nirvana. Having the children be my moral support when wavering on some item is priceless. "Mom, we don't really need to keep that, do we? Be strong, Mom." So it has no resemblance to mother birds. There is more to life than analogies. This season may not last forever, so I will ride this wave as long as it lasts. Surely we cannot go wrong with living with less stuff. Surely this will make life with the new baby easier. Surely I need to get the Goodwill bags out of the house before any of us change our minds...

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Love-Hate realtionships are difficult to explain. I have one such long-standing relationship. It angers me yet it feeds me. It alternately causes insanity and joy. I am helpless under the power it has over me. I am utterly incapable of the self-control it would require to walk away from this relationship forever. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

My mother of all people, was the instrument by which this relationship began. Yet I know she is not to blame. She was just trying to help. I am the only responsible party.

It all started a few months before I was to graduate high school and be married. I was almost eighteen, but had never been formally introduced to Sewing. My future Mother-in-law, readily discerning that I had no concept of proper etiquette, gave me a list of which activities would require a new dress. In the course of several weeks I would "need" eight new dresses, but new dresses were not in the  financial plan. (It wasn't until years later I figured out that one simple black dress would have covered everything. Etiquette-Shmetiquette.)

And so the introduction began. This was a whirlwind operation, as being in high school and having a job left little time to learn. Circumstances (namely the clock) dictated that the approach came down to,

 "Here, cut this",

 "Here, iron this",

 "Here, hem this".

No lessons, no explanations, just hurry.

It was, however,  enough to plant the seeds of an obsession in my soul which grew over the next fifteen years. I love to create, and make nice things for my family, but I detest the process. Through the years I have ripped out more seams than I ever left in, hand-sewn button holes because I couldn't figure out the button hole feature on my machine, and cursed my sewing machine more times than I care to admit. 

By God's grace, enjoying the finished product induces amnesia in me. (This is amazingly similar to natural childbirth.) The particulars of the process become blurry, and when looking at my three girls in matching dresses standing with my three boys in matching ties, the details downright disappear from my memory. For this I am grateful, as I can't imagine not sewing at all.

So often the things I want, especially the family's clothes, just can't be found anywhere, at any price. Their non-existence forces me back to the sewing room, and the cycle continues. I mumble and grit my teeth through the process, then bask in the gratification of a finished product. When the freshness of the recent project wears off, the cycle begins anew.

I love sewing,

          I hate sewing,

                    I love sewing,

                              I hate sewing,

                                        I ....

I am learning to enjoy even the process. The Lord has been teaching me about process over product.
 It doesn't truly matter if I can create a beautiful garment if I have not glorified Him in the process. Every step of the journey is the journey, and He is interested in my heart during every stage of every process. To be sure, His grace is sufficient for everything He has called me to do and be, including sewing. I will be sure my girls (and guys to some extent) don't leave home without the skills of sewing having been learned and practiced (and practiced and practiced), but my responsibility, my priveledge is to teach them a joy even in the process.

Besides, at the rate I'm going, it may be the only way I get through making the stack of jumpers I have cut out...

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