Big Moves, Buzzing Distractions, and Ramona the Brave
Lately I’ve been buzzing with anxiety, ostensibly overwhelmed with all the sewing tasks I need to accomplish.
There was Jenny’s coat, which still needed to be faced, lined, and finished; then Nick’s coat from pattern adjustments to toile to final product.
Randomly, someone reached out asking if I could make a pair of curtains and, not wanting to say no to an easy job, I said yes before realizing the curtains were pinch-pleat and lined and also there were four of them and they’re huge…
Another client reached out asking if I can do sewing lessons. I certainly can! She is a beginner, lives nearby, and since I’m sitting at my sewing machine most nights anyway, then I suppose I also may.
Further down the list; the things I want to do that the things I have to do are keeping me from, are personal sewing projects; a wool bomber and some button down shirts for my husband P’s belated bday present. A cropped princess coat with lantern sleeves for moi in this gorgeous hand-loomed pale pink khadi denim from Clothhouse, barrel leg Quinn pants in periwinkle twill, oversized shirts in pink and orange poplin, a shift dress in turquoise and red wool tartan suiting…
Did I mention that all of this needs to happen by December 4th…
When we move to London?
YUP.
We’re moving to London.
So obviously, sewing is my number 1 priority.
There are massive silver linings to this move (being closer to my parents/British family while the girls are little; free healthcare and excellent British state schools, escape from fascism, Cadbury’s), and my husband and I had planned to relocate eventually, but the timing sucks.
Our five year old, C, just started Kindergarten at PS321, and it lives up to all the hype. She’s in class with her best friend since babyhood, has tons of other friends in different classes, and adores Maria her teacher.
Conversations on our walks to school go something like this: “You know why I love school? It’s because I’m really good at school! Some kids only like choice time which is playtime, but I likes everything even the math. Did you know math is like how everything work, it’s all around us? And Maria says I’m really good at reading, she’s giving me extra things to read.”
Brooklyn kids, born and bred
How can a heart swell with so much pride and throb with so much pain?
Also: There’s a whole genre of books/movies about kids leaving freewheeling soul-nourishing sanctuaries, bound for cold Draconian hellscapes that always seem to be England.
The real reason we’re moving now is because my partner, whose income is required to sustain us, has been out of work for almost two years.
The timing here is also poor; he was laid off a few months before our second daughter was born, which was incredible for our family’s ability to bond and support one another (he’s a killer dad; these girls are so loved), but bad for job search momentum. His informal paternity leave ended in September 2024, right about when the 2024 election ratcheted from frenzy to full-scale delirium.
Despite what reports say (back when there were reports…) hiring conditions have not improved. My talented, hard-working, warm-hearted champ of a husband has been a final candidate on at least 7 roles in 2025; processes that have lasted many months and included multiple interviews, coding challenges and homework assignments.
Renting out our apartment here to move in with my parents in London has been our last-resort back up plan, an idea we’ve expressed exasperatedly, as half-joking shrugs, or spat at one another in arguments, never really imagining it would happen but here we are.
Anyway, the point is; all I want to do is sew, and all the sewing must happen NOW.
It was 8pm on a Tuesday. C had been in the tub for 45 minutes listening to a My Weird School audiobook. We don’t usually do media on weeknights, but I granted an exemption for extra time to inventory the sew to-do list, knowing full well I’d pay on the back end when removing the device induced an overstimulation meltdown.
The audiobook ended and I managed to short-circuit a tantrum with more ill-advised bribes (some halloween candy, honey milk). I wrangled C into pjs and onto the couch for “just one chapter tonight, do you understand?”.
We settled down and opened Ramona The Brave.
Is it motherhood that split my brain in two, or smart-phone induced brain damage? My mouth was reading words, but my mind still rattled down the list: Jenny’s coat facings, sew the facings together then pin them to the outer shell, adjusting for length as I reach the seams; no, wait, first sew the lining because the outer shell needs 24 to hang to set the hem…Wednesday start the curtains—no, get the coat done before the curtains come because the coat is more complicated: Eat the frog!; then Nick’s pattern pieces, then Nick’s wearable toile…”
At certain points, my mind became so overwhelmed that I’d freeze, silencing mid-sentence, only to be brought back to task by a prod in the ribs from C: “Mo-om! Keep reading!”
Have you read Ramona the Brave?
Recently?
Ramona is 6 and in First Grade, determined to prove she’s not a baby kindergartner anymore but a big brave girl. The problem is, school isn’t the same as it was in Kindergarten. No more play or creative free time or warm encouragement from her beloved Miss Binney: First Grade is about seat work, discipline, focus, and stern reminders from the inscrutably beige Mrs. Griggs.
By Chapter 7, Ramona’s moved into her own much-desired big-girl bedroom (where she lies awake, too scared of the dark to get any sleep), and is publicly humiliated by Mrs. Griggs when, not wanting to be called a tattletale, Ramona lashes out at a copycat classmate.
The situation is bleak. Nothing is good, everything is bad, and because she’s a big girl now, she must bravely face her lot alone.
One morning, exhausted from another sleepless night and paralyzed at the prospect of another beige day with her stern teacher, Ramona lingers in the school hall, settling at the foot of the steps and wishing she could disappear. A figure approaches and stops before her; Mr. Cardoza, the beloved teacher of her goody-two-shoes older sister Beezus:
*Suddenly he smiled and pointed at her as if he had made an exciting discovery.
Startled, Ramona drew back.
“I know who you are!” Mr. Cardoza spoke as if identifying Ramona was the most interesting thing that could happen.
“You do?” Ramona forgot to scowl.
“You are Ramona Quimby. Also known as Ramona Q.”
Ramona was astonished. She had expected him to tell her, if he knew who she was at all, that she was Beatrice’s little sister. “How do you know?” She asked.
“Oh, I get around,” he said and, whistling softly through his teeth, started up the stairs.
Ramona watched him take the steps two at a time with his long legs and suddenly felt more cheerful, cheerful enough to face Room One once more. A teacher from the upper grades knew the name of a little first grader. Maybe someday Mr. Cardoza would be her teacher too.*
I froze again, this time not due to distraction.
“Read!” barked my little daughter, prodding me in the ribs. But I could not read for the need to steady my ragged breath. She looked up, saw tears pooling in my eyes and reached to gently catch one with her finger.
“Why are you crying?” She asked.
“Poor Ramona. She’s so frustrated, but she doesn’t know how to ask for help.”
C rested her head on my shoulder and put an arm around me. We finished the chapter and she was tired. I brought her to bed, and lay down next to her. Holding one another close, we fell asleep.
Sewing can wait.
