:: Hello Baby :: a book review

Hello Baby

by Jenni Overend
[also published as Welcome With Love]

Rarely do you find a children's book as perfect as this.  The illustrations are realistic and yet still storybook-like, the narrative is simple yet complete.  The plot centres around a mother giving birth surrounded by her family at home.

Her small son Jack narrates clearly and from a child's perspective. "Mum's got pains in her tummy and that means her baby is ready to be born."

His mother goes for a walk in the wild wind to "help the baby along".  He observes, "I think if I was a baby listening to that wind, I'd want to stay inside Mum, floating in the warm water."

The midwife, Anna, arrives, as does Mum's sister, Auntie Meg. "She has a pot of soup and a bunch of yellow and orange poppies."

The constant theme reiterated throughout the book is that birth is normal.  There is no panic, no freaking out, even when the mother's labour progresses.  Jack's mum has already explained to him that she'll feel better if she yells and screams.  At one point, Jack answers the ringing phone while his mother is yelling.  "I yell, 'Mum's having a baby!' as loudly as I can, and I feel much better.  The person hangs up.  I would too, if I heard that noise on the other end of the phone."  Yep.  That's as intense as it gets.

My favourite part arrived at the end, when the entire family are having a camp-out in the living room after the baby's birth.  Jack can see the baby sleeping between his parents, which is where he wants to be.  "I sneak out of my bed and hop in next to Dad.  It's warm.  He cuddles me in.  I bet the baby's warm too."

Think there's going to be any jealousy issues between Jack and his new brother?  Not with parents as wise and loving as that.

I bought Hello Baby on the strength of the amazing reviews it was receiving on Amazon, but was surprised by how much it lived up to them!  All four children enjoyed this story from the time we first read it aloud.  Coo, particularly, fell in love with it and carried it around as her "book of the day".

It's worthwhile to note that some readers might find elements of this book unappealing, due to its realistic portrayal of a mother's labour and natural delivery.  The baby's birth is shown [not graphic but it's obvious where the baby's coming from!]

Also, I noticed that a few Amazon reviewers [.com not .co.uk] criticised the story's apparent location at a cabin in the woods as being too different and idyllically removed from the real world.  However, the author is from a remote part of Australia, where a home birth scenario like this would be more commonplace.

Sometimes different is nice.

And maybe someday, different will be accepted as normal.  I certainly hope so!

Short and Sweet [again!]

I am still here.  Writing time has not been plentiful this week.  

I will be back as soon as I can make some time.

Just so you know that I'm still in existence, here I am, doing one of the many things I do that add up to eat away the moments.

Finished

These photos aren't great, but here she is.  I haven't named her.  We'll leave that to Coo.  She has no hair [yet] but I crocheted a crimson beanie to keep her warm for now.

Modelling her flannel shorts and top underwear/pajamas set.

Vibrant and beautiful dress.  I started out with the intention of using Mexican influences for this dress, but clearly somehow managed to end up in Africa!  Is that a queenly posture or what?

So onwards now to the birthday.  I hope to be posting a Coo birth story at some point this weekend!

A few people have asked, so here's the link to the website where I purchased the doll materials.

Birthday Preparations

Or, what I've been up to in my not-so-spare time.

I've created oversized, simple rag dolls with crazy heads of yarn hair and dungarees made over from daddy's old jeans for each of our boys.  This doll, for the Tiny Feminine Person, has marked my foray into slightly more complicated doll territory.  I'm enjoying every minute of its creation... even though the hours until the Birthday are quickly ticking down. She is two on Friday. Where have these last twenty-four months gone?

:: Jane Eyre :: a book review

It's alright.  Go ahead and conclude that I'm a completely crazy woman for even attempting to review a classic like this.  Why am I doing it?  Well, after my recent ninth -or is it tenth or eleventh?- reading, I decided it was time to put my lazy brain into gear and analyse this famous piece of nineteenth-century fiction.

My first foray into Jane Eyre's world occurred when I was fourteen. [geek alert!] It was summer, and I was desperate for new reading material.  I loved to read, especially older literature.  Books were the only items that ever appeared on my wish lists. I had grown out of all the books on my bookshelf -well, actually it's probably more accurate to say I'd read them so many times I had entire passages memorised.  Little Women?  Read eight times, maybe more.  Any of Louisa May Alcott's books for that matter.  I had finished my perusal of the entire Nancy Drew classic collection -all volumes written up until the 1970s.  I'd just read Ivanhoe through twice. I had gone through every single story Conan Doyle had ever written about Sherlock Holmes. A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations had been finished a few years before. There seemed to be nothing left.  Nothing... until I started poking around among some incredibly dusty volumes I found on the top shelf of one of our family's many bookshelves.  I selected one, settled myself on a sofa in the midst of our noisy, busy home and sank into another world.

It was not a world I was immediately drawn to.  The grey suffering of Jane's childhood was distant and boring to me.  I read quickly, as usual, trying to figure out the plot early on.  It was impossible.  This was like no other book I'd read.  Just when I thought I'd guessed everything, another twist would throw me off, and I'd find myself back at the beginning.  

This was no cutesy Ned and Nancy, Little Women-esque romance. The developing relationship between Jane and Mr Rochester was a surprise to me, one I hesitantly warmed up to. The idea of  intelligent, eighteen-year-old Jane in love with a grumpy man in his late thirties seemed strange and unpalatable. When it all unravelled, I felt relief at her escape from his clutches.  As the story continued, I couldn't believe that she was still in love with him.  And she did not fall for the golden boy, who, in my infinite fourteen-year-old wisdom, I considered to be the much better catch.  

I finished the book feeling somewhat disappointed, and yet intrigued.  I had this sense -just a slight suspicion- that I hadn't quite understood the story.  This feeling began to gnaw away at me.  Anyone who knows me knows I can't stand to get it wrong.  I have to erase, revise, re-do, and re-write until I think it's right.  

So I started the book all over again.  After a second reading, Jane Eyre shifted, in my eyes, into a better light. Meaning, it moved to my annual re-reading list. Why? Well...  As Jane's positive character qualities became more obvious, I began to identify with her even more than I had with dramatic, writing Jo from Little Women.  I saw myself in Jane, as countless girls have done before and since, and wanted to be like her.

Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

Friendless and forsaken by her only remaining family, Jane Eyre, an orphan, is sent to a severe boarding school at the age of ten. She emerges from her time there shaped by her early experiences: fragile and small due to malnutrition yet strong in mind and spirit. How strong?  Her entire story is a carefully calculated measure of her strength.

She advertises as a governess and procures a position for herself in the home of a wealthy man, Mr Rochester.  Her charge, a young girl named Adele, is his ward.  She withstands endless dull days in an isolated country residence with only a housekeeper, servants, and Adele to keep her company.  She meets Mr Rochester upon his return home and gradually, slowly, begins to spend time with him.  He seems to appreciate her friendship, and a closeness develops between them.

Suddenly, the story shifts -what we thought was happening is not happening at all.  A group of Mr Rochester's well-connected friends descend on his house in an extended visit.  We begin to believe that Jane's increasing attachment to Rochester is futile; he seems to prefer one of his visitors, a wealthy, proud, beautiful woman.  Jane once again is friendless.  She fortifies herself against her feelings for Rochester and goes to spend a month in the home of her aunt, the guardian who forsook her as a child.

Upon her return, the plot does an about face, throwing us off course completely.  Jane and Mr Rochester appear to be sailing off into a happily-ever-after ending.  Just when we wonder what on earth the remaining one-third of the book is going to be taken up with, another cosmic shift takes place.  This time, it has devastating consequences, leaving Jane in a heartrending position.  But her incredibly steely inner and moral strength surfaces yet again, and she refuses to be bound by the wishes of anyone, Mr Rochester included, and strikes out on her own.

I'll stop there.  I'm aware that this has been a plot-spoiling review for those of you who have never read it.  But with books like Jane Eyre, it's practically impossible to give a general overview in a way that makes the story sound appealing to those who aren't geeks lovers of old literature without revealing a bit more than usual.

What eighteen-year-old girl doesn't need to read about moral courage?  What young reader doesn't benefit from a sharper understanding of the serious results of immature, foolish choices?  There is so much life wisdom contained within these old-fashioned pages; this 164-year-old story still resonates with its newest readers.

There are wonderfully written scenes displaying Jane's sharp mental acuity as she and Rochester converse as intellectual equals, but do not assume you are about to read another  Pride and Prejudice. There's really no comparison possible. Jane Austen was a writer with a gift for detailing social attitudes through wit and clever observation. Charlotte Bronte's novel digs around in the darker depths of the social condition.  Full of psychological complexities and possessing as many layers as an onion, it makes for a compelling re-read every time.

If you managed to make it through this review, you should have no problem completing the book.  Go for it!

Sons of Thunder

"Do you have any history of twins in your family?"

Yes, that really is the question they asked me as I was having my first ultrasound scan during my first pregnancy! 

There are so many things I can think of now as a response to this loaded question.  Something informative? "The only way twins can be genetic is through the mother.  Some women have a pre-determined genetic tendency to release two eggs during ovulation resulting in fraternal [non-identical] twins." Or something rude? "If I did, what's it to you?" And last but not least: "So what are you trying to tell me?"

But I didn't say anything, not that I can remember.  What they were trying to tell me, and eventually did, was that they were seeing two babies.

I don't recall thinking very much at the time beyond wow.  As you do, when you're just 22, married for five months, and still growing accustomed to your adopted country of two years.  I was excited about becoming a mother even though it wasn't quite happening in the way I'd imagined.  I'd had this basic idea of walking around with one baby in a sling, an idea that soon began to slip away as I grasped the enormity of the situation.  Our tiny two bedroomed flat with its closet-sized rooms seemed to fit with the imaginings of parenting one baby. However, two?  My intention of having a home birth also faded away.  I was informed that under no circumstances would I be allowed to birth at home, as I was considered high risk.  

Even writing that now sets my teeth on edge with irritation.  I swallowed everything I was told, soaking it up and accepting it blindly.  Ironically, I'd always been the type of person to do my own research.  Sometimes I look back and wonder why I didn't ask questions.  I think it was partly because I was floating around in a dreamy haze of twin pregnancy hormones.  Also, life in the UK was new to me;  I was still under the impression that the people in charge could be trusted and knew what they were doing!

As much as I look back and regret that I went along, sheeplike, with the flow, I don't question what happened to me and wish to change it.  I'm thankful that I had the experience I did, as I feel it gives me a certain amount of empathy with mothers who've had pregnancies and deliveries that haven't gone as they envisioned.  

At thirty-six weeks, I went into the hospital for a routine check and was immediately admitted, as my blood test results were abnormal.  The decision was made to induce labour, as I appeared to have pregnancy-induced cholestasis, a condition in which your liver stops filtering toxins from your body.  If it takes place early in pregnancy, it can result in stillbirth.  I was hardly early on; thirty-six weeks is generally considered full-term for twins.

So, induction... heavy labour almost immediately... drugs given to control hyper-stimulation of my uterus... gas and air offered and declined... told if I did not have an epidural there was a high risk of having the first twin born naturally and the second born via C-section. In a panic, I chose the epidural.  In reality, they were both head-down and in the perfect position to be born naturally.

Panic.  Sadly, it was this way.  As I've learned in the eight years since birthing my firstborn boys, it didn't have to be like that.  But it was.

Looking back, I wonder why they were so determined to control the birth of my boys.  At no time did my babies show any signs of distress during their constant foetal monitoring.  A friend has since given birth to twins at the same hospital and was treated very differently.  Perhaps the additional six years is the key to the change.  

Anyway, our boys came into the world in the midst of noise and panic and many people -students, doctors, midwives- and they were beautiful.  Long-limbed, skinny, identical, with coppery hair and entirely different voices.  Lefty had a lion's roar and he ate like a gannet.  Sleepy Righty breastfed twice in the first twenty-four hours and his wail was mournfully, pitifully hungry.  After a threat from an impatient midwife about "cup-feeding him formula", the shift changed.  A much more sympathetic midwife arrived on duty and showed me how to breastfeed them at the same time.  Righty was able to eat properly after that, when he joined his brother.

And that is what I did.  For months.  Even when they screamed constantly after being fed, I thought it was normal. I fed them almost continually, and assumed it was par for the course with newborns when they vomited up half of what they were eating because it was too much.  I didn't know anything about colic then - didn't really know anything about it until after we had already soldiered through it and were out on the other side.  I struggled to keep up with all the other singleton mothers I'd made friends with through breastfeeding support groups and courses, not realising fully how different my crazy life was from theirs.  A few years later, when Mr J came along, the silence and calm surrounding his arrival showed me what life could be like with just one.

But our first two... they were born as they live.  Charging ahead, full-lunged, protesting, courageous, confrontational, questioning, knights of the Round Table or the Jedi order or of Gondor or Narnia, depending on whatever imaginary land they're living in at the moment.  Storm-chasers rushing out to meet the tornado face to face.  Our sons of thunder.

:: Children of the Forest :: a book review

The Children of the Forest

by Elsa Beskow

The first image that caught my eye in this children's picture book were the red mushroom caps, so brightly detailed on the front cover. "All the children wore red-and-white spotted caps.  If strangers came into the forest, they curled up, still as stone, for all the world like four red-and-white spotted mushrooms."

Beautiful illustrations in muted earthy tones of brown, green, and red are accompanied by a unique, old-fashioned story, written by Swedish author Elsa Beskow. A tiny family, four children and their parents, live in a forest.  The children spend their time playing together, interacting with the animals living near them, and helping their parents in a life of richly creative survival.  "The children picked cotton grass and combed it smooth so their mother could spin it into silky thread.  Then she would weave it into rugs, or knit pretty, creamy-white sweaters for the winter."

This story details a year in their world, slowly unfolding in front of the backdrop of the earth around them and the changing seasons.  It is a gentle tale, with a softness in the pictures and the words that calms restless miniature people.  "That evening, sleepy and warm, the children sat round the fire, listening to their father telling stories his father told him when he was a boy, about trolls and fairies, storms and strange cities from long ago."

The perfect bedtime storybook!  We purchased the larger version on Amazon, but a smaller edition is also available -just as readable but less than half the size.  I've already given this book as a birthday gift to a friend of Coo's.  The animals and small people appeal to a wide range of kids both younger and older, as well as ones who aren't usually likely to sit through longer reading sessions, like my Mr J.

:: The Eve Tree :: a book review

I've followed Journey Mama's blog for a few years now. I love her writing style and her adventures with her family have been wonderful reading material; however, even better, she's just published her first novel and I'm excited about reviewing it for you here!  

The Eve Tree

by Rachel Devenish Ford

"All people had some sort of material running through them, something that held them up, kept them from folding into themselves.  Catherine's felt like iron.  Even when she wanted to let go, even when she was trying to let go, she could barely bend.  Her late husband could have told you.  But Molly's core was weak, flexible.  A straw, or a reed.  A daisy stem."

"It was no wonder now that Molly felt puny beside her mother, no wonder that she wavered now, torn between acquiescence and the need to stand up for herself."

"The leaves of the oak rustled again, and Molly looked at them.  The sound filled her with longing, and she realized where she needed to be.  She wanted the Eve tree."

Family relationships.  Generational ties.  "The dark, slippery places of the mind".  The Eve Tree delves deeply into all of these.  

This novel begins simply enough with the story of a woman, a ranch, and a forest fire threatening land, animals, and a way of life.  As it progresses, and the words flow across the page, woven into the simplicity of the plot is an emotional depth and complexity that has such a strong pull on the reader that it could aptly be described as  "page-turner".  

I found myself re-reading sentences and paragraphs again and again, savouring their almost prose-like quality. The author has a gift for minutely describing detail in a way that allows the reader to sense exactly what's happening. There are no wasted words, no rambling scenes, no dragging plot.  No useless dialogue or boring characters that make you feel like speed-reading.  Scooping up every spare word from the page, you feel thirsty for more until the final sentence plays itself out in front of your eyes.

I feel averse to describing too much.  This is definitely a case of "less is more".  Just get your hands on a copy, and read it.  You can check out Rae's blog here. 

Saying Goodbye

Grandmother died last night after a few days of fading slowly. There will be no funeral or memorial service, which is what she wanted.  We are her memorial: the many people she loved and left behind, each of us spending the rest of our journey on earth remembering her in whatever way we can.  

I haven't lived near her for eleven years, but I already miss her.  Saying goodbye over the phone to her last week was the hardest thing I have ever done so far in my life.  

First, it's the actual experience of saying goodbye.  Accomplished in a few difficult minutes, amidst tears and sadness, then it's over.  The line goes dead, and you know you will never hear that person's voice again.

Then there's living out goodbye.  No more notes quickly jotted onto a piece of paper, collecting anecdotes for my next letter to her.  No more photos, carefully taken, printed and sent.  No more plans for the future with her. No more questions to be answered by her.  No more highly anticipated visits, rare but happy times together.  Lunches and walks and card games and chats and memories shared.  

And for me, there's the mental strain of sorting through those memories in my head.  The fear that I will somehow forget... the exact sound of her gentle voice... her distinctive laugh... her greeting: "Hello lovey!"... everyday stories she would tell about people and events both past and present.

As my grandmother enters fully into the realm of memory in my mind, I am praying that I do not forget any of these things about her.  And I'm asking you... if you knew her, help me remember!  If you didn't, any creative and practical ideas from your own experience of keeping memories of your loved ones alive would be gratefully received.

Mom and Grandmother, California, 2007

photo by Alex Frederick

What's on the table?

Finally returning with a Thursday food post after a few weeks' hiatus!  Need to do something normal right now after the emotional strain of the last week so here goes.

My favourite meal this week was Tuesday's tea: homemade cheese and onion quiche, warm from the oven; watercress and rocket salad dressed with olive oil and red wine vinegar; steamed peas and courgettes [zucchini] with olive oil, lemon juice, and garlic; and steamed broccoli.  Mmmm!

Baking... this weekend it's going to be cheesecake for Dan's cousin's birthday, flavoured with a bit of lemon and, for a tasty twist, the insides of a vanilla pod.  Last weekend I made Nigella's incredibly dark Guinness cake with its addictive creamy topping as a treat for our friend Beth, who's off to the States for three months.  The week before that it was Andrea's chocolate oil cake for our friend Kemp's birthday.  That cake... it was my most favourite yet.  I have to confess, I've been drifting away from the tried and tested legendary chocolate fudge cake in favour of Andrea's slightly healthier version.  Anyway, I made it with coconut oil, and sandwiched it together with a vanilla butter icing.  This wasn't just any vanilla butter icing, though.  It had two tablespoons of finely ground fresh coffee folded into it.  And that's not all.  I melted a bar of Green and Black's espresso chocolate, stirred it into the remaining vanilla butter icing, and iced the cake with it.  Finely ground fresh coffee grounds adorned the top of the cake. Scrumptious doesn't even begin to describe the levels of flavour in that cake.  Of course, if you don't like coffee, forget about it.  But for those of us who do... Oh. My. Goodness. 

I actually used organic Swiss decaf beans for all the ground coffee in the cake, to minimise the caffeine impact.  However, the Green and Black's bar definitely contained large amounts of caffeine, and so did the cocoa in the cake, so... it's possible that the caffeine content was still dynamically high.  I don't even want to think about what would happen if I gave that cake to my kids!

Right Now

I am...

• Resting beside a snoozing Coo, hoping she won't be awake until midnight tonight as she normally is after daytime naps!
• Soaking in some faint but definitely discernible sunshine brightening up our afternoon.
• Listening to the beautiful sound of silence as all three boys are sitting on their beds for quiet time, reading and chilling. 
• Enjoying a song sung by friends, feeling the peace of it seeping through my soul.  Appreciating my treasured blogging and real-life friend who reminded me of it yesterday.
• Thankful for all of your kind comments and e-mails after my last post.

Now, I'm off to hang up the washing in that pale sunshine before it disappears!  

Grandmother

As life flows past, and time ticks away, I find myself stepping into darker and deeper uncharted waters, walking through a time of loss progressively more painful than any losses before. 

Unequivocally, today I've said the most difficult goodbye yet.  While the sun shone in an unusually brilliant blue sky, I stood outside a busy building full of people and noise, trying to find a silent space to hear the gentle but still strong voice over the phone, connecting to the woman on the other end, my grandmother, lying in a hospital bed in the States.

The weeks of attempted rehab are over, the months of artificial feeding at an end.  She is tired, and at 83, who can blame her?  She has lived a full and happy life and she firmly believes it is her time to go.

As I listen to her familiar voice over the phone, tears rolling down my cheeks, the panic that rises in my throat at the thought of saying goodbye to Grandmother, of all people, is not unknown.  I remember as a child just thinking about the possibility of losing either of my parents made me almost breathless with a blind, dark fear. After Mom and Dad, Grandmother was the person I'd think of next and feel terrified of losing.  She has always been there.  Treating me like an equal, not afraid to either disagree with me or praise me, she has been a constant presence in spite of the fact that for much of my life, we've lived far apart. Her desire to have a relationship with her grandchildren was strong, and she wrote to us constantly.  We learned how to return her letters, and I had a regular correspondence with her until I was thirteen, and she moved to live nearby. This resumed when I moved away from home, and has continued unabated over the years.  

Somehow, as hard as it was to lose my grandpa last year, this feels so different.  My sister Emily accurately pinpointed why.  "She's not just a grandmother; she's been more like a close friend."

For those of you reading this who do not know her, this is Grandmother.  [We were not allowed to call her anything else; she couldn't stand 'Granny', nothing other than 'Grandmother'!] She is a study in contrasts.  Gentle, iron-willed, determined, yielding, creative, practical.  She is an intellectual lover of books and learning, but she is also extraordinarily gifted at connecting with children, reading a simple book with them, interacting on their tiny level.  Listening to them, making them feel treasured, loved, and accepted as equals.  She loved it once when I described a child as a "miniature person".  I can still hear her saying; "Of course!  That's exactly what they are!"

"Hugs, hugs to you all," were her last words to me over the phone today.  The last time I hear that caring voice, the strength within it flowing out, reaching across the miles to comfort and encourage.  

She's always had plans.  However, in the last few decades of her life, she set aside her own plans in order to be a practical support to my mother with homeschooling.  She chose to live in a place she didn't necessarily love just so she could be a tangible part of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren's lives.  Having left her beloved California behind, she selflessly made the best of her surroundings in Indiana.  

Selfless.  It's a simple word but an accurate description of my grandmother.  I'm hoping to see more of the inspiration and characteristics of Grandmother's life woven into my life and the lives of my family in the future.  I will hear her voice again, echoing across time with words of strength and wisdom.  

For now, though, it's the raw depths of goodbye that we're walking through.  Grandmother's life is in its final stages here on earth, and her going-away is leaving a supermassive black hole in our family's universe.

To Dye or Not to Dye?

You might be led astray by this title, thinking I am going to debate the environmental (un)ethics of dyeing.  Nope.  This is just a little chit-chat about all the colour-changing I've been up to!

A few Sundays ago, I took advantage of our partially sunny, very windy weather and did three dye washes, hanging them out in the fresh breeze to dry.

This is always a community thing.  I text a few friends, telling them which colours I'm doing, and they'll bring bits and pieces round to add to the loads.  Then I open the wardrobe, a small one that Dan and I both share, and from my collection of clothing I pull out whatever I can find that hasn't been worn in a while.  The prevailing question is: can it be dyed? If not, it's thrown straight into a charity shop bag.  If so, onto the dye pile it goes.

I don't seem to remember to take before pictures.  Ever.  But here are a few recent pieces after their colour rejuvenation.

People Tree cotton recycled sari dress from last year, purchased in the sales for £12... now my favourite shade of green! Dyeing this once buttery yellow dress green muted the contrasts, previously light brown and cream, to dark brown and grass green. (worn with a t-shirt that was originally red, now plum after going through a blue wash)

Same dress, worn as a skirt

Miss Selfridge dress, purchased new four years ago, originally cream/brown/yellow combination; went through a blue wash.  Now blue/brown/green.  

This is one of my favourites.  When I found this cardigan on a sale rack at Old Navy while on a trip to the States three years ago, I could not pass it up.  Why?  It was only FIVE DOLLARS!  I loved it.  The style and fit were perfect.  However, the colour, identical to the green buttons, never quite did it for me.  I found this particular shade of green a difficult one to match -and I use 'match' lightly because most of my clothes don't 'match'- but the colour tones have to go together.  I've needed a brown cardigan for a long time, so this went into a red dye wash.  The white lines around the neckline turned red, and the green cardigan with the tiny front pockets turned a lovely rich shade of brown.  The colour tone is perfect; it goes with almost everything!  The only work remaining on this cardigan is to replace the green plastic buttons with wooden ones.

Mr J decided to steal a hug in the middle of all the photo-taking!

This is a floaty, cotton, Indian-made top that has virtually no shape but is still flattering, with some lovely embroidery.  I've had it for fourteen years, but have gone through long phases of not wearing it because the colour -sullen green with splotches of yellow and pink- never really complimented my colouring.  I like it a million times better after a purple wash.

A few things to remember about dyeing:

• Start with clean clothing, stains removed if possible
• Check the fabric content: 100% cotton is best, but any cotton mix will generally produce some colour change.  Wool and most artificial fabrics will not dye.  
• Machine dye if possible.  I find this produces the best results: even and long-lasting.
• Follow the instructions on the dye packet carefully; don't forget the salt!
• The less items in a dye wash, the darker it will be; and vice-versa
• If you're unsure about the colour you will end up with, do some coloured pencil scribbles to mix the 'before' colour with the colour of the dye wash.  This usually gives a fairly accurate idea of the finished colour.

When I began dyeing more often using conventional dyes [such as Rit and Dylon], I also spent time researching natural dyeing methods.  After an extensive amount of reading and trying to understand natural dyeing processes, I realised that even if I were to embark on the huge amount of work that natural dyeing methods would entail, it would still be necessary to use chemicals and unnatural substances to set the natural dyes.  If I ever have the space needed and the necessary hours available someday, I'd love to try this out.  And grow all the amazing plants used for natural dyes, and spend time cultivating old-fashioned dye pots, etc.

Right now, my life is just a little bit too crazy.  I have stacks of soap-making supplies in my cupboard, waiting to be used.  I've just begun a photo-organising project which includes making a few scrapbooks.  These are just two of many creative ventures scattered half-started all over my house.  

So for now, I'm going to leave natural dyeing to the experts and use these little boxes of Dylon to achieve colour magic.