In Stitches

I can’t remember the day I first became aware my mom wasn’t like other moms in the 1970’s. That is to say, she didn’t make lots of Rice Krispie treats. She didn’t host neighborhood parties. She didn’t sip grown up iced tea out back with her friends, or run a book club, or gossip, or indulge my every whim.

At 3, I became fascinated watching mom draw her fingers across her lower lip while she read a book after dinner. By 4, I was watching Captain Kangaroo in the mornings with my dad, because mom was off to work already. At 5 and 6 and beyond, mom made my sister and I matching Easter outfits, and then made clothes for our dolls to match. Every single year, she was in the back seat of the car furiously stitching in the hems on the way to church, because she had a million things that had kept her from that one last detail right up until “go” time.

When I was 8, I crawled into mom’s lap while she was typing away on her IBM Selectric and asked her how to change the goofball so she could write in italics. She was typing another article to submit to some far away magazine. She stopped to show me and then she just held me for a bit. That was the moment I developed the parenting idea (although at the time I was planning to apply it to my future pet) that you should always take a minute to hug your kid (or your cat) when they come asking. That moment felt very, VERY good.

My mom was a trailing spouse – and a trailblazer. While my dad changed jobs every few years, mom changed homes. There weren’t always easy changes at every stop, but every time, mom found work, or freelance writing, or some other project to keep busy. And I found myself curious enough to creep into her space often and ask her how or what she was doing.

We had moved to Texas when I was 9, and I was going to be in a fourth grade “Go Texas” day. Having lived in Ohio all my life, all I understood about Going Texan was that I needed cowboy boots. I begged and pleaded for them, but my shoe allowance had been used up on saddle shoes and sneakers. That was all a 4th grade girl needed. Then one day, mom called me into her office and told me she’d sold an article, and she would be paid $45. She smiled and asked me if I knew what that was enough to buy. I remember the feeling of elation as I realized I was going to be a rootin’ tootin’ cowgirl just in time for our big Go Texas program. I was watching mom put her passion to work, and it was currently working for me.

It wasn’t long after that mom tried to teach my big sister to sew. Carol is a brilliantly gifted woman with a lot of skills, but sewing was never going to be one of them. I am a little sister with jealously to spare, and I had no tolerance for being sidelined while Carol got mom’s time and attention at the sewing machine. The perfect solution was born – Carol slid out of reach, and I slid in. That summer, mom taught me how to read and cut a pattern, how to thread and detangle the machine, and how to sew straight lines. We made skirts and shirts and doll clothes. She turned me loose on all the scrap fabric I could find. And when I deemed myself ready to create, she stood back and indulged me as I made millions of mistakes and lots of really questionable fashion choices. From there, I was off to the races. I wore my own creations to school. Carol let me make her prom dress a few years later. Then I made my own. By the time I got to college, I was making Greek sweatshirts that supported my pizza and beer fund, and actually bought my first machine that lasted me for the next 25 years.

After three babies came along within the first five years out of college, I got to work making baby clothes like it was my job. Then the real job came, and my sewing slowed down to baby blankets for new family members and things I couldn’t resist dressing my daughter in. I even put her at a sewing machine at the age of 7 and taught her a few things.

For a time, I ran a small Etsy shop, but life was too busy to keep it up. As history repeated itself, I made a homecoming and a prom dress for my daughter before she left high school.

Then one day, a friend asked me if I could help her daughter with a last-minute prom dress fix. I agreed, having never worked on manufactured formalwear before. I found in that dress a love of taking things apart and putting them back together that I can only describe as an engineer might enjoy taking apart machines. The construction inside was fascinating. So many pieces and so many creative steps! The dress was a hit, and my friend told a friend, who told someone else, and then the word hit Facebook. Within two years, I had become the go-to seamstress for not only the high schools in my city, but the high schools in every surrounding district as well. I got so backed up at prom season I barely slept for weeks on end. And then I broke into the wedding business. With brides came bridesmaids, and mothers of the brides. I left my “real” job and took to the sewing room with a career unlike any I had envisioned when I held my very lofty ambitions walking out of law school fifteen years earlier.

And now, in the quiet evenings between dresses, I reflect back on everything mom taught me and realize it was far more than stitches. She gave me everything I needed to find my way through what would become a very complicated adulthood.

Mom taught me:

To have no fear of being different. So what if all the other moms are stay at home moms? Or have a perfect work set up? I can work, and nurture my family, and find a way to make my kids and my passion priorities.

To make do with what I have. We don’t spend money we don’t have.

To be resourceful when I want more. When we don’t have the money, but those cowboy boots sure do look nice, then get creative. Write the extra article. Sew the extra blanket. Make it work.

To be creative with my talent. I was trained to think analytically in school. But there is a time and a place for logic. Mom taught me to let go and let passion take over. I use the logic to measure, but the passion is what brings a project to life.

To love my kids. Mom might not have been the cookie baker, but mom was the anchor. She had the temper and the tears and all the feelings in between that let you know it was ok to feel stuff. I poured that into my kids every day. I still do.

To love the written word. I’ve sewn for almost 40 years. But my earliest memories were of watching mom read and write. No matter how many stitches I put in, I will always come back to writing about my experiences. And I’ll always take an opportunity to write about my mom.