These chicken pants are awfully funky. They were made by my two-year old son and I during one of our late night sewing sessions, when a long nap leads to a delayed bedtime. Years ago, I found this vintage fabric at an antique market. It's just the thing for our specific project: pants for digging in the mud and looking for worms, for rolling over stumps and finding centipedes. They are perfect for the job, but far from perfect. Our sewing sessions are about us being together making something functional in toddler attention span increments. They're about him running the pedal on the machine with either his hand or his foot, while I tap his head to signal stop and avoid getting my fingers in the way of the needle. I remind my perfectionist self of this as each seam gets more and more twisted and asymmetrical. I comfort myself with thoughts of pairing these pants with something that is meticulously made. As the scissors slip and he accidently cuts a slice into the side of the pants, I remind myself that magically all of this may not even be noticable once they are finished. People notice your mistakes less than you think. Right?