Before I fell pregnant with my lovely boy, I began to make a hexagon quilt. I saw one in a magazine and loved the old-school look. It reminded me of exactly what quilts should be - lots of memories and scraps lovingly made into something that can be passed down from generation to generation. I cut out countless hexagons from 1930's fabrics and began to hand piece them on the train to work.
Not too long after that, we found out that a little bub was on the way. The quilt became my gift to the baby and I set about piecing it with more gusto and a deadline! I imagined wrapping my little baby up in the quilt, all nice and cosy.
Days flew and my motivation for finishing it was swallowed up by my exhaustion. I simply couldn't prioritise anything over sleeping (um, except eating). By the time I was 40 weeks, all the hexagon flowers had been pieced, all the white paths had been pieced and most of the paths had been sewn to flowers. My trusty sister-in-law and husband pitched in and pieced with me. We would watch telly and the three of us would stitch so this little baby could come home from the hospital wrapped up in the quilt his mama made.
But it was not to be. On the night I gave birth, my SIL finished piecing the two halves of the quilt together. Fate perhaps? I had Herb at 10.23pm and she finished her last stitch at 10.30pm.
The quilt top was finished and it sat on its lonesome for a while. After about 4 months (memory hazy but let the story go on), I basted it. More time lapsed while I debated how I should quilt it. I decided to quilt around the flowers and inside the centre hexagon. So for the next 15 months I quilted.
And now it is finished. A huge labour of love and something my little boy cherishes every day. The quilt was wrapped up under the Christmas tree, when he opened it, his expression was priceless, something I will never forget.
My heart swells when I see him pick it up and take it to his bed - tucked in and wrapped up in my love.
