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Painting the town red

Posted on March 13, 2012 by Larissa

How cool that my red jersey pants were featured on madeit‘s homepage today amongst the ‘Painting the Town Red Finds’:

And how cool that we posted this parcel today – a whole bunch of matching items for a new nursery:

I had a request from a lovely group of workmates who wanted a special gift for their co-workers’s new daughter. I made the red and pink birds mobile and a rattle and Mum made this beautiful lined gingham wrap with a frilled edge and a long 12-flag bunting to match the mobile.

We enjoyed thinking about and creating this order so much and welcome any enquiries.

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Posted in Children's clothingTagged as featured in, children's clothing, mobiles2 Comments

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← Sneak peek in the lead up to The Square

Lots of autumn sales at The Square →

2 thoughts on “Painting the town red”

Jacq says:

March 14, 2012 at 2:22 pm

I love the baby set! What a great gift idea!
It’s a shame I cannot fit into those red pants…….!!

Jacq

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Gabbi says:

March 14, 2012 at 11:02 pm

What a gorgeous set, Larissa!! Fantastic idea… And we know how wonderful your mum’s wraps are 🙂

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On the side of the road near our house, I found not one, but two of these same empty cigarette packets. Elsie’s (pictured right) doppelgänger? #thebearandthewhale #prem #prematurebaby #doppleganger #smokingharmsunbornbabies #bytheway #idontsmoke

Blog update - The first year I woke this morning at the same time that Mum took her last breath 12 months ago. I remember every detail about that moment. In fact, I can recall, hour by hour, every detail of the two days leading up to it. Apparently, the cortisol released by our bodies in times of stress embeds memory very deeply in our brains. In the months after Mum’s death, that was actually a challenge. But here’s something interesting. I said to my friend last week that this was going to be a big week. I was about to refer to the end of the financial year and the invoices that I still needed to send, find or pay. ‘It will be,’ she said. ‘You have your Mum’s anniversary.’ I hadn’t thought about that. I rang Dad on the way home and we racked our brains to remember the date. I ran through the events over those two days, and as we sat in our vehicles, he spraying fencelines and me in our driveway where I’d pulled up, we agreed it must have been the 28th. Another girlfriend texted last night, ‘Lunch tomorrow?’, and, since she thinks of everything, it made me realise it must have been the 27th. It was. Was I so busy living life that I hadn’t thought of it being a year? No. Was I still picking myself up after crawling through the ‘firsts’? Perhaps. Or was it, as Dad and I agreed on the phone, that it was not a date we wanted to particularly acknowledge. We want to acknowledge and remember the good times. There were so many. Seventy-one for Mum. Fifty-one for Dad. Forty-four for me. For us, as we navigate this new landscape, we want to carry with us the happy times. That’s not to say we’re not sad. That we don’t bawl easily or often. Or that we loved Mum any less just because we don’t want to mark the day she died. For me, 12 months indicates the end of the firsts. I didn’t think they’d be hard. People told me they’d be hard. They were hard. (Post continues in Comments)

27 years of bubbles and laughs #thatslivin #thebearandthewhale @patricia_robs_ @lysandrat #missyouvick

Today’s workmates. #thebearandthewhale #farmlife #onlyinstraya #canfilmsteerandnothitthefence #clever

Teach your baby to self-settle, they said. #thebearandthewhale #cutestthingever #evenifyouhatecats #unlessyoudonthaveaheart #kittensofinsta

Dear Mum, I was just thinking back to this day last year when three of your girlfriends arrived at your house with morning tea, announcing that they hadn’t missed one of your birthdays yet. I took candid photos of you all laughing so hard that each of you had to pull a tissue from your sleeve or bra and hold it to your eyes. When they drove away, you stood on the deck waving. And I saw that you were crying. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever see them again,’ you said. You didn’t. But they loved you so much, Mum, and I bet they miss you as much as we do. I’m glad you got to spend your last birthday with them. And it’s only right now, as I’m writing this, that I don’t think I ever saw you cry at any other time during your illness. Did you do that to protect me, Mum? I did my best not to cry in front of you, too. Until the morning you told me that you’d cleaned Dad’s good shoes ready for your funeral. I’d read about the Ring Theory where the person experiencing the bad thing is in the middle ring, like the bullseye of a target. And the larger rings around that person represent, first, significant others, then true friends, casual friends and in the outermost ring, members of the larger community. I knew that if I was talking to someone in a ring smaller than mine, in this case, yours, the goal was to provide comfort and support. If I wanted to unload about how crap the situation was, I had to turn to someone within my ring or in a larger one. That was hard, Mum. You’ve always been in my ring. It was you I always cried to. And it was you I wanted to cry to. But I knew that the situation was crap in every ring and you had enough going on in yours. How on earth could I ask you to comfort me? I tried not to cry that morning, to hide my tears, but I was kneeling in front of your armchair with my hand on your knee, and you saw them. ‘Don’t cry,’ you said. It breaks my heart again no to think of the emotions bound up in those tears and your comment. We were lucky, Mum, that the ring around yours, the significant others, was so crowded that we held each other standing. We still do that. (Blog post continues in Comments)

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