Needle and Thread
Eli recently came running into my room well past his bedtime with his Harry Potter scarf, which has come unraveled.
I have to confess it thrills me when he asks me to do this kind of thing. I need to break out the sewing machine and fix his scarf pretty quickly. I want to fix it for him. In spite of my aversion toward many things domestic, when my babies want me to do any of these kinds of traditionally maternal things, I can’t wait to do it! Yes, I’ll sew your scarf! Ask me to sew something! Yes, we can make a homemade cake! Homemade key lime pie? Sure! You want to make a gingerbread house? You want me to read you a story? Paper Mache Piñata? Cardboard box robot? Sock Puppets? Absolutely! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! If it requires a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, I will try my best to do it for you. I don’t know for sure if I can say that’s who I am, but that is the kind of mother I want to be. Some significant part of me wants to be that for my children.
Why? Because when I was daydreaming of motherhood, these were the things I dreamed about. Do you think I sat around daydreaming of being fat, tired and haggard? Do you think I longed for the days that I would leak breast milk and spend an entire 13 months of my life with spit-up on my clothes? I did not daydream about sitting in my son’s karate class twice a week (as awesome as he is at karate). Or going to Chuck E Cheese. Or cooking and serving meals that are insulted and then thrown away. Or spending $50 at a really bad animated feature film that will be quoted incessantly for the following 3 weeks. You get the idea. Not that I don’t LOVE being a mommy.
I just love some parts of being a mommy more than others. Baking together, sewing things on demand, going to the park, reading, or making crafty arty things that Lena finds in books are among the things I love doing in the mommy sense. My mom didn’t do those things with me when I was little. It could have been for lack of interest or ability, or maybe just time. She was a busy woman living alone with two kids, working full-time. God, I get that now.
My mom passed away in June.
When I first found out, I was stunned, even though I knew it was coming. I had this overwhelming sense that I had forgotten something really important. She died in the wee hours of the morning when we were in Mexico, on the day we would fly back to Houston. Those hours on the airplane were really hours of in-between. I was in between countries, governments, homes. I was in the air. No land to put my feet on. No soil under my feet. Temporarily homeless. I thought on the plane little more than, “My mother is dead.” I had this overwhelming sense of having forgotten something. It was similar to many times I’ve been on a plane, but with a much greater sense of urgency, desperation.
I had this unnerving feeling of impending disaster, coupled with these unexplained moments of fleeting relief. I racked my brain to figure out what I had forgotten. Oh God. I left the iron on. No, that’s not it. I left my passport at the hotel. No that’s not it. Have I forgotten some medication? My children, where are they? My tickets? My wedding ring? Where did I park the car at the airport?
I knew: My car wasn’t at the airport. I was not taking any medication. I had my passport, my tickets, my wedding ring. My children were sitting safely right beside me. I hadn’t forgotten anything. It was something else. It is something else, still. It’s a different kind of empty. A different kind of fear of, or for, something forgotten. My mother is dead. My mother is dead. My mother is dead.
Did I forget to say something to her? No I said it all. I think she heard me. Did I forget to do something? No, we took care of everything. It’s just that now there seems to be a little hole in my pocket, in my socks, in my shoes, in my head. And my mother keeps falling through it.
My mother was not the kind of mother who darned socks or sewed anything. She couldn’t bake a homemade cake to save her life. She couldn’t fix the hole I have in my being any more than she could have put a needle and thread through Eli’s Harry Potter scarf. If it required a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, she was not even interested in trying and she said so, unabashedly, laughing even. She would try her best though to buy it for me, whatever it was, even if she shouldn't have. I don’t know for sure if I can say who she was entirely; she was many things to many people, and being a mother wasn’t the role she fell into most easily. But she was the kind of mother she wanted to be, I think. And that’s the best we can do for our children, isn’t it?
“Mom! Mom, can you sew it? Can you sew it?”
"Yes, I can sew it. Put it on my desk. I’ll fix it for you.”
“Can you now? Can you now? Can you get the sewing machine right NOW and sew it?”
"No, Eli, you know I can’t right now. It’s late, boy! Get to bed!”He then moved into pleas of sleeping in my bed so he could watch me sew the scarf. You can’t blame a kid for trying.
I have to confess it thrills me when he asks me to do this kind of thing. I need to break out the sewing machine and fix his scarf pretty quickly. I want to fix it for him. In spite of my aversion toward many things domestic, when my babies want me to do any of these kinds of traditionally maternal things, I can’t wait to do it! Yes, I’ll sew your scarf! Ask me to sew something! Yes, we can make a homemade cake! Homemade key lime pie? Sure! You want to make a gingerbread house? You want me to read you a story? Paper Mache Piñata? Cardboard box robot? Sock Puppets? Absolutely! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! If it requires a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, I will try my best to do it for you. I don’t know for sure if I can say that’s who I am, but that is the kind of mother I want to be. Some significant part of me wants to be that for my children.
Why? Because when I was daydreaming of motherhood, these were the things I dreamed about. Do you think I sat around daydreaming of being fat, tired and haggard? Do you think I longed for the days that I would leak breast milk and spend an entire 13 months of my life with spit-up on my clothes? I did not daydream about sitting in my son’s karate class twice a week (as awesome as he is at karate). Or going to Chuck E Cheese. Or cooking and serving meals that are insulted and then thrown away. Or spending $50 at a really bad animated feature film that will be quoted incessantly for the following 3 weeks. You get the idea. Not that I don’t LOVE being a mommy.
I just love some parts of being a mommy more than others. Baking together, sewing things on demand, going to the park, reading, or making crafty arty things that Lena finds in books are among the things I love doing in the mommy sense. My mom didn’t do those things with me when I was little. It could have been for lack of interest or ability, or maybe just time. She was a busy woman living alone with two kids, working full-time. God, I get that now.
My mom passed away in June.
When I first found out, I was stunned, even though I knew it was coming. I had this overwhelming sense that I had forgotten something really important. She died in the wee hours of the morning when we were in Mexico, on the day we would fly back to Houston. Those hours on the airplane were really hours of in-between. I was in between countries, governments, homes. I was in the air. No land to put my feet on. No soil under my feet. Temporarily homeless. I thought on the plane little more than, “My mother is dead.” I had this overwhelming sense of having forgotten something. It was similar to many times I’ve been on a plane, but with a much greater sense of urgency, desperation.
I had this unnerving feeling of impending disaster, coupled with these unexplained moments of fleeting relief. I racked my brain to figure out what I had forgotten. Oh God. I left the iron on. No, that’s not it. I left my passport at the hotel. No that’s not it. Have I forgotten some medication? My children, where are they? My tickets? My wedding ring? Where did I park the car at the airport?
I knew: My car wasn’t at the airport. I was not taking any medication. I had my passport, my tickets, my wedding ring. My children were sitting safely right beside me. I hadn’t forgotten anything. It was something else. It is something else, still. It’s a different kind of empty. A different kind of fear of, or for, something forgotten. My mother is dead. My mother is dead. My mother is dead.
Did I forget to say something to her? No I said it all. I think she heard me. Did I forget to do something? No, we took care of everything. It’s just that now there seems to be a little hole in my pocket, in my socks, in my shoes, in my head. And my mother keeps falling through it.
My mother was not the kind of mother who darned socks or sewed anything. She couldn’t bake a homemade cake to save her life. She couldn’t fix the hole I have in my being any more than she could have put a needle and thread through Eli’s Harry Potter scarf. If it required a little creativity or an oven, or a needle and thread, she was not even interested in trying and she said so, unabashedly, laughing even. She would try her best though to buy it for me, whatever it was, even if she shouldn't have. I don’t know for sure if I can say who she was entirely; she was many things to many people, and being a mother wasn’t the role she fell into most easily. But she was the kind of mother she wanted to be, I think. And that’s the best we can do for our children, isn’t it?
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