‘Twas the week of Valentines Day, and I took it upon myself to decide that Billy wanted to gift his Daddy and his Nanas with something to mark the occasion. 

Then I came across this photo on Facebook and absolutely loved the idea. Simple and sweet!

Completely aware that the tiny hands of an eight month old would not co-operate with such a task, I got to work and purchased my supplies. If I want to be a crafty mama I need to start somewhere right?

On a particularly riveting trip to Supervalu (that is genuinely not sarcasm. I get excited by little excursions like this. Is that sad? I’m not sure if it’s the bargains, the free samples of cheese, or the little scanners you can use. It’s all a bit exhilarating if you ask me) I decided to pop in to the local shop to see if they stocked art supplies. I was hoping to pick up some coloured card and a bit of glue – and to my delight News Extra had both. Cheap and cheerful. So off I went on my merry way, armed with fresh bread and art supplies in my pram’s basket. A walking cliche if you will – and totally loving it. 

Billy was so excited about the activity. OK, so that is a complete lie. He spent the ten minutes or so shouting at the fish (he has recently developed a fascination with the fish bowl). But he stayed put, playing in his activity station, and he gave me a few reassuring smiles. I kind of felt that he was thanking me for channeling his desire to create a present for his loved ones. No problem, son. 

Sure look, it was always going to be a bit of a fail wasn’t it? Tiny baby hands are not made to be traced. It was actually quite comical to be honest. I sauntered over to Billy, who was in the midst of terrifying the fish, and confidently placed his hand on the piece of paper and began tracing the outline of his hand. After approximately 0.1 seconds he swiftly removed said hand and gave me a look of contempt. A look that adequately displayed a tone of “Eh no mam. Jog on”. 

This is the point where you might forgive the rather sausage-like hands you are currently feasting your eyes upon. I tried, he moved his hands, and it is therefore all his fault. He was being selfish and uncooperative, and I explained this to him as best I could but he didn’t seem too bothered about it. He ignored me, demanded milk, and that put me in my place fairly rapidly.

                                                      But it’s a bit cute isn’t it?

Mutant hands and childish hand-writing aside, we did it.  It’s the thought that counts isn’t it? Even the Dairygold looks a bit underwhelmed. How Dairy!! (Get it? Dare He. DAIRY. Now that’s funny. OK, I’ll stop now, don’t want to milk it. MILK IT? HA).

Disclaimer – I cannot promise that my craft attempts will in any way improve. So far this week I’ve portrayed my baby’s hands as mutantesque and served my boyfriend onion cookies. So I’m definitely working this domestic Goddess stuff, that’s for sure. Next week, hoovering in heels.