Monday, November 20, 2006

Scrappy booking

Scrapbooking is one of those things I swore I would never do before I became a mother. Partly because it has become a verb, which bothers me. It just seemed like an incredible waste of time and paper. Then the pictures started piling up, and my son's baby book started looking woefully inadequate. Now I go to a friends house once a month for a "workshop" which is basically a time to sit down with all my scrapbooking paraphernralia and round the corners on my pictures and try to remember what month they were taken. Zaya is now 32 months old, and Mim is 15 months old, but their scrapbooks are a little behind, so I'm always playing catch up. There's this incredible variety of things that one can use to scrapbook. Stickers, die-cuts, stamps, borders, and various unholy combinations of same. Then there's the paper, and all the gadgets to make the paper look different. Cutters and stencils, rounder and punchers; and the end goal is to put your pictures on a page that looks pretty and decorative.

I think that's really the key to my problems with scrapbooking. (And I still have them, whether or not I'm officially an initiate). I just don't do pretty and decorative. That doesn't describe me, my house or any of my projects. I think I have a disability. Scrapbooking, and other activities of its ilk, constantly remind me of my incredible inadequacies as a woman. I think I'm supposed to get excited about arranging flowers and dressing my children in cute little matching outfits. All the little stickers and borders and layers of shaped paper cut-outs in my scrapbook are supposed to fill me with contentment and bliss. They just don't. Probably because right there beside them I have my written comments about the pictures (called "journalling" in scrapbook jargon) in the handwriting of a neurotic 13-yr-old boy. I come home from my workshop to my dorm parent apartment that is still decorated in newlywed-garage sale modern, even though we've been married for 6 1/2 years and have two kids. My pictures are placed with care and precision precisely wherever there were hole and nails left from previous tenants. . .I could go on. I guess my entire point is. . .I need woman lessons. Does anyone offer those?

5 comments:

Attolia said...

I've never been into all that decorative scrapbooking jazz either (though I realize I'm not exactly in your situation). :P You could still consider your picture-hanging decorative though...after all, you're covering up those ugly holes in the wall. :) And my handwriting is also messy and boyish...I think Mom has finally accepted it as an unchangeable evil.
(Btw, this is your cousin, in case the fantasy-esque name didn't give it away. :P )

Noillirac said...

Yeah, I'm sure our bad handwriting is an indication of something cool about us.

SUNNYBROOK said...

Pssst...it's called Home Economics, and you would probably have hated it...haha.

Dearie the feelings of inadequacy happen regardless of whether you are the artsy/decor-minded type. It's a girl thing.

You're doing great! Enjoy the kiddos and don't sweat the small stuff.

Love ya'

Tasra Dawson said...

Found your blog on a google search and had to say hello! I love the honesty of your post. So many women don't scrapbook because they're intimidated by all the "stuff" or pressure from the magazines to be artistic, creative, and create these amazing works of art. I think it's fabulous that with two little ones that you're even making an attempt to get them in albums and leave journaling. Don't beat yourself up. Your family will appreciate what you do and the unique way that you do it! Just my two cents.

Tasra Dawson
Author of "Real Women Scrap"

Jenny said...

I just discovered you and have been perusing your archives. My goodness, I can't believe how much I sound like you. This post is too funny! I just do a baby book and consider it done.

I don't do decorating either and we still have garage sale modern stuff even though we've been married 10 years and have one child.

I know this is old, but it's just too funny to pass up a comment.