Quilt-O-Queen

My daughter needs a quilt.

- "A big one.  Like the one at Papi's house."

That quilt, my first, must weigh ten pounds.   I cut the pieces from my ex-husband's pants and shirts and used an old blanket for batting material.  There's not a straight square in that quilt and the bright orange flannel backing is completely gone.

I am doing things right this time.  Sort of.  I've bought a mat and one of those little pizza wheels to cut my squares.   The wheel has been maginficent: it has sliced through four layers of fabric AND the back of my thumb in less effort than it would have taken to snip a single thread.

My sweetheart bandaged the thumb. 

After some deliberation I decided to use the blood-stained piece of fabric as a tribute to the travails of motherhood and creativity.  Plus, my daughter and her descendants will get to keep a record of my DNA embedded in the fabric for twenty-six generations to come.  Perhaps I could also embroider a motif using some of my hair, the way the Chinese do?  Or dip my toes in ink and print a pitty-pattern? 

Whatever the outcome, my daughter is bound to be thrilled by my ingenuity.  I am also hoping she'll be impressed with and grategul for the sheer amount of maternal effort that's being exerted. 

I have nine fingers to finish the project.  Things are looking darn good.