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Let me begin with this: I am utterly, completely, thorougly humbleld by the comment you shared on the last post. The kind words you left there knocked me off my feet again and again and brought me to tears literally dozens of times.

I was not at all expecting what you said.

So thank you. For sharing, for being open, for letting this space shape you.

I really didn't know. And I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

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My list was made.

My bag was packed.

I had been printing out knitting patterns and hoarding yarn for almost two weeks.

I was going to the cabin with my best friend from high school – someone I have not really been alone with since we begame mothers more than a decade.

But then…

Her little one needed her. And I got a migraine. And then I threw up. (In a public bathroom no less. Sorry. Too much information, I know.) And the next thing I knew Lupine was laid out with a fever and an ear ache.

I knew what this meant.

I was staying home.

I've only gone away once before since becoming a mama those many years ago. And that time too there was a feverish kid who nearly pulled us back from the door.

But this trip. This trip was off.

I decided to stay home. Because I can't pretend to be someone I'm not, and I'm not one who can leave with a sick or just-barely-post-sick kid at home. I can't do it. I don't want to.

So I stayed.

I cancelled my second weekend away ever. (Did I really? I really did.) And I felt relief to say I was staying home.

But I also felt a little colossally disappointed. (But that knitting! That sewing! That writing!)

And so I asked Pete for the unthinkable.

I asked him for a weekend away at home.

(Meaning: I'd stay home but be off-duty.)

Okay. I know, I know. Almost every mama understands that being home means being swarmed with children. But my kids are getting big. And I work from home two days a week. So they kind of get it. It was almost possible.

He agreed.

And I went into the sewing room with a cup of tea and closed the door behind me.

When I finally emerged two days later I had a craft-hangover. I think I would have vomited rickrack if I stayed in much longer. Seriously. So. Much. Sewing. It was insane.

And the kids were awesome. They would sometimes stand outside of the door saying, "Ring! Ring! I'm calling you at the cabin!" and we'd laugh as I opened the door and saw them with a shoe or a spoon on their ear as a phone.

Pete rocked it. He cooked every meal. Washed every dish. Got kids ready for bed every night.

He rocked it.

While I had a hundred projects I could have started, I began in a most simple place: the humble hot pad.

Those who have been around for a bit might recall that my everyday hot-pads are nothing short of disgusting. Truly, they should not be allowed near food.

I bought two of them while wearing Sage (now 10) in the sling. At K-Mart. They are pink/dirt colored and greasy/foul/funky/nasty.

I sewed a replacement that never really caught on but was used just enough to look almost as gross as the K-mart pair.

Seriously bad hot pad karma over here. (Okay. I have one awesome hot pad, made by the amazing GoodKarma Bren. But aside from that I'm a disaster.)

So finally, finally! I made a hot pad.

Crafted from a $0.50 pair of adult corduroy pants and scraps from previous projects (aprons, tote bags, bonnets) I cranked it out in less than an hour. And it's cute. Really cute. In that imperfect who-gives-a-crap way that a hot pad to replace a hideous one can only be.

I'm thrilled. With a hot pad.

Yes. Really.

And to prove how thrilled I am – much to Pete's horror – I'm showing you the old one. On my dirty, crumby table even.

Because come on. I'm crafty. So why was that thing on my table?

Oh, yes. All took was a weekend away at home, and finally, a decade later, we have one good hot pad. Adios foul greasy friend. Your K-mart kinfolk will soon be following.