Bloggers Are Not Superheroes

I'm not sitting here with a cape on. Or my big undies over the top of my outfit. Nor do I have any super powers. I'm not saving lives. I'm only saving my sanity. And preserving my memories. That's what blogging is to me. Oh and it's given me a community of other mamas and general all-round ace chicks to communicate with. To high five. To chew the fat. To bounce ideas. And to virtually hang out with.

But I'm not doing anything anyone hasn't done before. I'm parenting. I'm working part-time. I'm wifeing. I'm trying to make ends meet (and those ends seem to move further and further away monthly). I'm juggling and dreaming, hoping, praying, cleaning, cooking, washing, talking, watching, stitching, writing, reading, sleeping, snoozing, cuddling, kissing, sweeping, watering, laughing, smiling, showering, weeing & pooping, walking, driving, looking, sniffing, colouring, avoiding, chasing, weeding, dusting, vacuuming, emailing, SMSing - oh man, I could go on, but you've probably already fallen asleep. WAKE UP!

I'm a woman. Not a superhero. I have no super powers. If I did, I'd give nasty people an electric shock each time they were nasty. BZZZZzzzZZZ!

So why are bloggers seen as the new superhero? Are bloggers the new black?

Super (the) Doctor

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I said I was going to make the Doctor a super hero cape. I bought the fabrics, I just never went any further.

This lady came to the rescue and sent me one of her cute little numbers that she and Caleb customised for the doctor. So cute, and a firm favourite in the dress-up box.

Monday arrived this week and I'd not had a chance to sit down and do my hand-sewing to finish my top. So I was coming up empty handed with anything to stitch. Maybe I could ditch the class for the week? No. I'm not that kinda gal. So I went through my stash and re-discovered the cape materials.

Off I trotted. My sewing teacher cut out a pattern for me, I sewed it - with that cute Japanese spot as the trim. Only after spending a whole lotta time stitching, I took it off, flipped it over to admire my handiwork and realised there was something wrong wrong wrong with the sewing machine.

My sewing teacher at the top of her voice screeched, 'Oh you've threaded the machine up wrong'.

Here's where it gets super good.

It was on this particular Monday evening that I had for once walked in to find my very favourite machine already threaded up - bobbin and all. It was my lucky night. Or so it seemed.

The lady who was sitting next to me piped up in my defence and said - 'No! She didn't thread it, it was already done.'

To cut a long story short - someone else jumped on the machine while I was stitching, and lo and behold it was only then that my sewing teacher discovered that it was not my fault. And that naughty minx of a machine is off for a service. And me, I'm going to re-sew the whole cape again, because as George Fisher said: 'When you aim for perfection, you discover it's a moving target.' Bring on the archery practice.