Thanks, Kids!!

So the fish quilt has a new home. I donated it to Project Linus yesterday, because not only have I heard of the charity before and like what they do, they also have a chapter in Orange County, and fortuitously, their drop-off point is right where I was going to be. It was kismet. I hope that someone will enjoy the quilt. Surprisingly, I felt a slight twinge of regret when I laid it out to take this picture. I thought for a moment that maybe I should keep it, because of all the work and the fabrics were somewhat expensive and.......then I snapped out of it. I feel it's more important to donate it to someone who will (hopefully) love it rather than just keep it around "because". I think I made the right decision.

But that's not my story. My story is about my kids, whom I love and adore. While photographing this quilt, my daughter, who is 6 and very good at it, looks at it and says, "Why are you giving it away?".

I say, "Because I don't like it. It doesn't fit in the house well". And it doesn't fit me, and I think I made it because I was just following the fabric to it's logical conclusion, instead of really thinking whether or not I'd want the thing around afterward. (But I don't say that, obviously.)

So she says, "Can I have it?".

I think about that for a second, because I was having the twinging little doubts about donation, and I'm flattered that she wants something I have made, but then I remember she's 6 and her normal thing is to want something, get something, take care of it for a few days, and then forget about it under the bed or in the closet or something like that(this does not hold true for My Little Ponies, but quilts, yeah, that's the case). Then most likely I'll take possession of the thing again. She's 6. That's what kids do. And since that'll leave me in the same predicament of wanting to give it away, only several days later, I say "No".

Then my son chimes in and says "Why you don't like it?" (he's 3--we're still working on grammar)

And I say "It just doesn't really fit. I guess I just don't like it too much."

He says "It's ugly?"

"No," I sigh, "it's not ugly. I guess I just don't like the way it came out. That's all".

But the notion that the quilt is ugly is now implanted in his little boy brain, and it'll come back to bite me later.

We head to Middletown, which is where we were going for several reasons, and do our errands. Then we head to the AC Moore, which is the dropoff point for Project Linus here in Orange County. I get to the counter, and show the package to the cashier and ask her if they take the donations at the counter, or if I need a manager.

"I can take it", she tells me. And she looks at it, all wrapped up and says "Oh, it's all wrapped and everything".

It was wrapped because I didn't have a bag big enough to stuff it in. Plus, I felt bad just shoving it into a bag. But of course, it's wrapped, so you can't see it. So you can't tell what it looks like. Which is fine, except that now my daughter speaks up and says, "My mom doesn't like it".

I mumble something about how it wasn't what I was expecting when it turned out, and it just doesn't fit in, or whatever, and then my daughter speaks up and says "So we're getting rid of it."

Thank you, kiddo! Now the woman looks at me like I'm dumping toxic waste on her, and giving the charity something ugly and horrid. So I mumble something else about how we're not getting rid of it, it just doesn't fit and blah blah blah, I don't even know what I said, but the whole time I'm fighting the urge to grab the package back and rip it open and show her it really is a nice quilt, and my son, my lovely, lovely son, whom I adore, opens his sweet little innocent mouth and says, "It's ugly".

Ah, there it is. The final nail in the coffin. I was waiting.

Of course, now the woman is positive that I've dumped some horrid thing on her to give to someone. I can't reach the package to open it and show her that's not the case (nor should I--let's try to be mature adults here, right?), and I can't say anything to dissuade her thinking, so I just slink away. And once outside, thank my children for being wonderful and honest, but perhaps next time if they could just not be quite SO honest all the time, I would appreciate it.