Five Green Acres Mary Jo + Andrew Borchardt Poynette, WI
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It’s been hot.

It’s been hot.
June 29, 2009 Mary Jo

Two short days after agreeing that our window air conditioning units would not be necessary this year, we witnessed the folly of such a ridiculous thought.  It was hot.  For days and days.  Or more importantly, it seems, it was humid.  So humid that our furniture, a classy blend of college chic futon and grown up, we-have-a-baby-now plush, revealed the pet odors lingering just below the surface.

So humid that I declared a beach emergency and we met Daddio at the closest sandy respite. So humid that I ignored the important concept of Bedtime, on a day that had missed the other critical component of sanity, Nap, inviting too-tired, shrieking Crazy Girl to take the place of my sweet daughter.  Heat clearly makes us do crazy things, like forget Daddio’s swim trunks at home, inadvertently making him do penance at the beach in jeans.  Still sorry, Daddio.

But it was the perfect opportunity to try out the beach bag I made days before.  It features a burlap coffee sack and a repurposed tablecloth gleaned on a romantic “Date Night at Goodwill” excursion (the first, and still only, foray out sans-children since Baby 2).  A quick project, meant to scratch the “instant gratification” itch and give me a sense of satisfaction, it instead served to knock my over-confident Sewing Swagger down a notch and remind me of the importance of measuring.  A bag is a bag, right?  The bigger the better?  Not with skinny little straps like that, you silly fool.  Filling it even close to capacity will render it too heavy for even your pack-mule shoulders, trained relentlessly by the baby/diaper bag/canvas grocery bag combo.  Let this be a lesson to all you would-be cargo bag sewers:  you can aim too high.  Bigger is not always better.  It’s a friendly reminder about sustainability.  A reminder which hangs from my wall, drowning out the other bags and carrying devices, shouting loud and clear the dictate to build within your means.

The next day, still hot, still humid, deflated by sewing folly and beach tantrum blow-out, I gathered my brood and headed to the nearest purveyor of kiddie pools, swallowing my pride and temporarily ignoring my Walmart boycott.  It was humbling, yes, but oh-so-refreshing.

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