Once upon a time, when I had just two monsters, I threw together fleece lap quilts featuring my partner's old metal t-shirts for the wee ones.
I framed the shirt fronts in poodle fleece, backed them with a skull-and-crossbones fleece, serged the edges and called 'em "done." It was a quick-and-dirty project intended more to give the boys each something of Daddy's to snuggle with than to rock anyone's crafty world. They were promptly named the "pirate blankets" by the Big One, because any skulls or bones automatically means pirate (or Jack Skellington).
My then-not-yet sister in law thought the blankets were hilarious, and asked me to make her a Cradle of Filth blanket "if [she] ever [had] kids." I laughed it off and said "sure," and it was never brought up again.
"Ever," of course, has turned into "April," and I have not forgotten my promise (though I have a feeling she has). Of course, baby J needed a bit more than a quick fleece blanket from his Auntie Monster, so I developed grand plans of putting together a pieced t-shirt-front quilt that would delight his parents and one day the mister himself.
But here's the thing: I really stink at quilting and blanket making. And yet I keep trying...
I love to sew, but when I say I'm sewing something it usually means something silly and frivolous that will require hardware to work properly (like the Tudor gown at the left, complete with steel-boned undergarments). Want a brocade bustle to jazz up your steampunk ensemble? Gotcha covered. Need a gypsy skirt or a court costume to wear to that Renaissance festival you promised your nerdy friend you'd attend? I have a whole trunk full. The day I found out I was pregnant with Big One I wore an 18th-century robe a'la Francaise to one of my graduate classes as part of a semester-long project. Yeah, I'm that kind of nerd.
But ask me to sew blocks of fabric together and you sure as heck can't expect it all to be squared.
So, as usual, my first attempt was a failure. I had cut two t-shirts (one Cradle of Filth for the mama, and one Boondock Saints for my brother) into 3-inch strips, serged them together end to end, and then cut the one long strip into several strips to then piece together for the front of the quilt. The end result was something like a gothic brick-road rainbow.
But I just couldn't let it go. My solution was
this: I cut nine regular rectangles out of the curved mess of piecing, regardless of the direction of the seams, edged them all in the same fabric as the baking, and crossed my fingers that it would all come together.
And this is the final result. It's a little bit of his mother, a little bit of his father, a little bit of his babyhood (his nursery is decorated with frogs, and that's what the paisley pattern is), and a little bit of his auntie. If nothing else it should keep the new monster warm and remind him that he's loved.
What's the point of sharing all this? Well, I have a few, not least of which is my love of sharing completed projects.
Two, I wanted to share one way to preserve t-shirts instead of stuffing them in a drawer.
Three, I always appreciate hearing about mistakes people make when crafting/sewing/baking, especially when they are able to save it in the end.
I can't wait for Baby J to make his entrance.
First Born is credited with these cupcakes; he asked for them, helped make them, and then named them; when I pulled the finished cupcakes out of the oven he said, "Ah, as good as blue!" 
