Once upon a time, or so the story goes, because I have a horrific memory and this is my dad's story that I'm relating... Anyway, once upon a time, my mom cooked us all breakfast. According to my father, they were fabulous breakfasts. Some days it was scrambled eggs. Some days it was French toast. But every morning, before school and work, my mother cooked us breakfast. But, my father loves to tell me, I ruined it. Because I was never happy with what was served. If it was French toast, I wanted scrambled eggs. If it was scrambled eggs, I wanted fried eggs. If it was fried eggs, I wanted French toast. So one day, my mother had enough. And she declared, "I'm not cooking breakfast for you people anymore." Which is why, to this day, my father resents me for
him losing his breakfasts. And he likes to remind me of this. Frequently.
I will now shift topics, but rest assured, I will tie it all together at the end. I always tie it all together at the end. Don't I?
A few years ago, I wanted to learn how to sew, so my grandmother gave me one of her sewing machines. My grandmother was an incredible seamstress--she sewed her clothes, her curtains, her everything. My parents got married on a week's notice. My grandmother bought a size 12 white cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus and sewed it to size for my size 2 mother in literally days (and as I know the definition of
literal, you can know that I mean that). My grandmother dutifully taught my mother how to sew. I have plenty of pictures of me in adorable little dresses that my mother sewed. Granted, she sewed out of necessity--another thing my parents frequently like to remind me, they had little money in those days and sewing my clothes was the only way to keep me clothed. But she did sew some awfully cute things. Fast-forward thirty-some-odd years later, my mother and grandmother still have their sewing mojo and the two of them collaborated on
sewing the huppah for my and Adam's wedding.
Now, as expert seamstresses, you'd think some of that might have rubbed off on me. It didn't. In my defense, I'm pretty sure no one ever taught me. It's possible my mother may have offered to teach me to sew, but I have no recollection of it. She taught me to crochet. She offered--on multiple occasions--to teach me to weld, solder, and use a band saw. I declined. But that's a story for my therapist, not for you. Point is, no one ever taught me to sew.
Here I am. A grown woman with a little girl, a not-quite-so-little boy, and a sewing machine. I've got a manual. I've got a box of spare needles, empty bobbins, and... well, stuff. And I have no idea how to use any of it. I've got this fairly sophisticated machine and I can--almost--sew a straight line with it. But I've got this crafty streak that
wants to be able to use the machine. I have this not-at-all secret side of me that longs to be Martha Stewart. I'm a stay-at-home mom. I'm working on my novel (yes, yes, I am!). But I have lots of time when children are occupied, but not so occupied that I can do anything that requires total focus (like writing). For instance, when a playdate is over, and I am summoned approximately every 14.7 minutes. A good time for sewing.
A bunch of weeks ago, I went with the kids to Jo-Ann's Fabrics. I was going to sew. With the help of the Internet, damn it, I was going to sew. I let the kids go wild. The boy wanted a cape. The girl wanted headbands. I thought I might, just might, try my hand at a skirt.
And then we saw it. The dress. It was on a mannequin and the girl just swooned over it. "Mommy! I
love that dress. That dress is
beautiful!" Next to the dress is a free pattern. "Easy" it reads. "Simple" it promises. So I look at the girls face. And I look at the pattern. And I sigh and say okay. The girl and I choose our fabric. We choose our ribbon. And I promise that eventually I will put it all together.
Over the course of the next few weeks, I sew a few capes (complete with the Air Force fabric that I couldn't talk the boy out of). I make a headband that is worn for five seconds before the girl declares she can't stand it. I start working on a few projects for upcoming birthday parties.
The fabric for the dress sits. It's in my office. And every few days, Pie wanders in and says, "When are you going to make my dress? I want my dress. Can you make my dress, pllllleeeeeaaassssse?"
One day this week, Jasmine and Pie are playing. Playdates for Pie of late have been iffy--we're in the midst of a full season of perfect temper tantrum storms these days. They emerge from nowhere, build to awe-inspiring fury, and then spend themselves, leaving only a helpless wrath of destruction. Therefore, a playdate is no longer free and easy time. It's on-call time on a new level. No writing, No reading. Nothing that requires substantial concentration or my leaving the general three-room vicinity.
Hey, how about sewing? I can sew! So, I start sewing. Have I mentioned that I'm not a sewer? So "Easy" and "Simple" are "Laborious" and "Tricky." And I had to stop every few minutes to run into Pie's room to fix a toy, find a purse, or answer a question. Luckily no change in weather patterns, so it was a relatively calm afternoon. And an afternoon later, I'm just about done. Even with a matching headband. Yeah, the seams don't quite line up. Okay, so maybe the double hem wasn't exactly intentional but the only way to keep the bottom from falling down. Maybe, it's a bit big. It'll fit perfectly next summer. Or at least the summer after that. I have the girl put it on so I can mark where the ribbon ties go.
"Where's the ribbon?" she asks.
"Right here," I say, showing her the green ribbon we picked out. Together. The two of us. Me and Pie.
"No!! That's the wrong ribbon! I want flip-flop ribbon! I want ribbon with flip flops on it! Where's the flip-flop ribbon? I don't want green ribbon! That's the wrong ribbon!" And the tears ensue....
All right. Thirty-three years later. I admit it. I should have just shut-up and eaten the French toast. Sorry, Mom.
Labels: me, my family, pie
