There's been a niggling thought at the back of my mind as I do these crafts. I always feel a moment of small pride when I finish a project and then almost right away: I shouldn't have time to do this stuff. I should be running around chasing a two-year old. I shouldn't be able to leave buttons and needles lying around. From what I can tell, this is normal for bereaved parents. It's not that I feel entitled to anything more than anyone else. You just live in two timelines - the present one, and the one that would have been. It feels like a natural consequence of the - usually - reasonable expectation that your children outlive you. So even though I enjoy making things and working with my hands, I also feel a little bit stupid doing them. I assume this feeling will pass in time, as I become more skilled (on a few different fronts).
On the whole, crafting has been good. It's yet another outlet for the grief. Every owl, every bird of paradise, every ghost (ghost?? I will probably stop making those) is made with pure love. Also rage, sadness, fear, anxiety and shock. It all gets stuffed in there with the batting. Not stuffed down and away, just...integrated.
One good thing about learning the nuances of daisy stitch vs running stitch is that it's a relaxing way to spend time on my own. It's almost meditative to pass the needle through one side of the fabric and out the other, repeating a pattern of stitches over and over until suddenly a form emerges. Since the miscarriage I've been feeling more isolated. It's surprising how many social groups you can get kicked out of when bad things happen to you. I realize it's a two-way street. I feel like I understand every single person's position when it comes to relating to me. But it still hurts like hell to feel like I don't belong anywhere. I'm not very gracefully learning how to navigate the latest bumps in the road. Or as someone once said - the bumps are the road.