The Deadline

When our eldest was born, I remember my partner expressing disappointment that he didn't have anything from his own childhood to pass on to our son. Growing up, Nolan and his family never stayed in one place for very long. Their sleeping arrangements shifted regularly between garages, living room floors, shelters, housing projects, and ultimately a compact car, fixed up and shared amongst the three boys, their mother, father, and two cats.

These frequent transitions did not allow for Nolan or his brothers to keep many personal belongings, but for as long as they could, they held onto a small, quilted baby blanket gifted to their then-teenage mother by a former neighbor. This kind gesture from a near-stranger meant so much to them, at a time when many of their struggles were going unnoticed by the adults in their life. Before the family left Indiana, bound for the Pacific Northwest, their parents passed the quilt onto an aunt so that it might be shared with generations of little cousins. Sadly, the quilt was lost before it could ever make its way back to Nolan or his brothers.

On my 11th birthday, I received a sewing machine from my mother. I knew what it was going to be, because in those days purchase history on eBay was not private, but available to anyone who went looking (sneaky pre-teens not excluded). A first-generation Belarusian immigrant, our mother has never rested a day in her life. At the time, she was a "Power Seller," working in a group home for people with disabilities by night, and dragging my sisters and I to various thrift stores by day. From an early age, we all knew what brands of children's clothing to watch out for; not so we could wear them, but so mom could resell them on eBay and hopefully garner us a little spending money for that month. Seeing her purchase history did not make my gift any less exciting. If anything, it added to the anticipation.

It's strange to think that by the time my sewing machine arrived, Nolan was moving out of his family's car in the adjoining town. He had rented the only apartment he could afford on a high schooler's budget, and taken his younger brother with him. The name of the complex was "The French Quarter," and while this may conjure up a mental image of Parisian elegance, that could not have been further from the reality. Years later, I recognized it as the former apartment of my childhood babysitter, an elderly Ukrainian woman named Rosa Dvakevnya. Walking up the damp AstroTurf stairs and entering Nolan's apartment for the first time, I could still smell the pyrizhky. It was strangely serendipitous.

After my mother taught me how to use my sewing machine, I started small. Pillowcases. Bookmarks. Purses which resembled pillowcases, yet were only large enough to accommodate bookmarks. The most precise scissors I could find at the time were a pair of pink Fiskars with "Katya" written on them in my Kindergarten teacher's script; what's more, they were small enough to fit in the storage compartment of my new machine.

Those little pink scissors, along with my sewing machine, carried my crafting hobby through high school and beyond. As a teenager, I developed a fascination with anime and Japanese culture. I started attending conventions in costumes I had sewn, hunched over the machine on my bedroom floor into the early hours of the morning. While my posture still suffers, I have since upgraded my project surface to the kitchen table.

So it was that when I learned of Nolan's lost baby quilt, I set out to make our baby a quilt of his own. I had never sewn a blanket before, or quilted for that matter, but figured it couldn't be so hard. I set what I thought was a generous deadline for myself, vowing to complete it by his first birthday. Hours were spent browsing the aisles of our local craft store, carefully selecting a small assortment of baby blue fabrics that reminded me of all the things he showed an interest in (namely, flowers and other plants). Though we had always said we wanted to create a gender-neutral space for Alexei, the truth is blue was and always has been "his color".

My deadline was extended only twice. First when, on the eve of his birthday, I anxiously determined that a twelve month old couldn't possibly differentiate between dates, (wasn't time a social construct, anyway?) and again a few months later, when I fell pregnant with his younger brother. Once I considered that the original quilt and inspiration for my project was shared amongst three brothers, I thought it unfair not to include the new baby in my fabric considerations. Perhaps it was best, I thought, to dedicate one section of the quilt top for each child.

I was still pregnant with Soren when Nolan and I met with a team of specialists to discuss some observations Alexei's pediatrician had made at his last few well-child visits. Specifically, he was nearing his second birthday and not yet speaking. His eye contact, they noted, was not on par with other children his age, and his "play skills" needed "a lot of work." They explained to us that autism was a developmental disability, and elaborated that it would take him longer than his peers to reach certain milestones. Somehow, this took us completely by surprise… and yet we remained acutely aware of the fact that Alexei was the same child we'd been raising prior to stepping into that evaluation room; sweet, silly, smart, and full of some very interesting ideas. Three years later, Soren would go on to receive the same diagnosis.

By my estimation, the quilt project is now two-thirds complete. Our third son, Lewis, will be a year old in a little over a month. Our house is cluttered, and our hands are full (as are our hearts), and admittedly... it's been a little while since I've sat down at my sewing machine.

I recently brought out my scissors to practice cutting paper with the boys, now eight and six. Alexei is non-speaking and still loves his botanicals. Soren will eagerly tell anyone he meets about his latest Lego creations. They are two very different kids, each with their own unique set of strengths and challenges, yet the one challenge they have in common is a fine motor delay. Once just a sewing tool, my beloved pink Fiskars have taken on a new role in the occupational therapy field. You can still make out my name, but the sharpie has faded. Orange paint splatters decorate the pink, and it is clear that they are not just mine anymore.

I know that professionals will advise you never to use your sewing scissors for anything else, but they were never just sewing scissors to begin with, literally or figuratively. They have lasted me twenty-five years, and I would not be surprised if they last us twenty-five more. While I certainly hope it doesn't take me that long to complete our sons' quilt, I am no longer concerned about meeting deadlines. As with most milestones in our home, they are celebrated without expectation, cherished but never rushed, and we will get there when we get there.