Life lessons from a fat quarter

i can be really slow at jumping on the band wagon (what the heck does that really mean anyway?). the apron trend has been around for, oh, i don't know, ever it seems and I'm only now starting to see them as a little more than just "that thing that people used to wear to keep flour and stuff off you when you pour your soul passionately into the baked goodness which emanates from your kitchen" to something practical and even cute. i know, i know, where have i been??

anywho, aeryn is 5. not just in her mind, but her coordination. she loves to help with anything i'm doing. if it means she gets to throw flour around all the better (key word throw). she needs an apron. most definitely, she does.



she picked the pink, i encouraged the purple, and i picked the lovely vintage buttons from a collection of my mothers, which includes many that were my great-grandmothers.



i love buttons. good golly i love buttons. big ones, teeney ones, metal ones, plastic ones, colors-i-adore ones, colors-i-abhor ones (can't think of any of those actually).

my munchie loves to mimic. indeed, that's probably more accurate that the aforementioned "help". she loves to assert her independence (like mother like daughter) and do whatever she witnessed me do. i like it actually. it causes me stress and agony, worry and pain, but deep down i really do like it. independence is healthy. i just wish she'd pursue it on my time table.

she grabbed a strip of fabric from the bucket and sat her little kiester down at the machine. i intercepted and was able to coach from the sidelines. she was so happy. that little munchie of mine stitched 3 rows down that 60 inch strip of fabric and in those few moments i was transmitted back in time.

years ago, my mother taught me to sew on the very same machine. it's older than i am. i remember clearly; in the basement of the house on whileaway, the cold linoleum floor and the hot tub in the corner. she showed me all the knobs and wheels, explained how to go in reverse and how to change the stitch size. i wanted so badly to sew, but she was nervous and gave me paper instead of fabric, void instead of thread. i pushed the pedal and moved that paper generating a unique pattern of punctures. the paper still held it's scraggly spiral edge but as i looked at my masterpiece i could see what appeared to be a bald eagle with outstretched wings. it was magnificent.

mom didn't help me sew again for a few more years (though she did buy me my own machine at a garage sale and let my creative juices flow), this time in the house on castlepoint, with it's wedgewood blue carpeting that would hide pins in it's plush depths only to let them resurface when being embedded into your foot. this time i had fabric. and a pattern. and thread. it was a gorgeous floral chintz. ivory background, mauve blossoms, and a pleated tapered-leg pant pattern. every little thing about it screamed 1988. my only demand of her,

"let me do everything."

mom's perfectionist nature sometimes interfered with her ability to let me do things myself. she just wanted so badly for every little thing to be perfect. i've never since known what it feels like to be loved so much. i sewed in the zipper and thought it was phenomenal, but i had one or two stitches which where somewhat out of line with the rest. i didn't care, i wanted it that way because i did it myself. when i came home from school the next day, she had taken out the seam and redone it because she didn't want me wearing something that wasn't as good as it possibly could be.

i was upset. really, truly upset. i put those pants aside and never finished them. i don't know that i sewed anything else until i left for college. so great was my need to be independent, and so great was her desire to give me the best.

watching aeryn, i found myself reaching to straighten the fabric. lifting the pressure foot for her when she reached the end of a row. trying to control the outcome of her little experiment. i realized that i am the product of those who went before me, in a good way. i'm not a seamstress. i have no ability whatsoever compared to my Bachelor of Science in Clothing and Textiles mother. i can't generate the best of everything using this simple machine. but i do want to swoop in and "fix" everything, to do what i can to make things as close to perfect as possible.

one day i will tell her about my mother. the time she spent at this machine and the remarkable things she made. about my spiral notebook paper bald eagle and my flowered almost-pants. i can let her dream, let her own creative juices flow, and cheer from the sidelines as she does. it may not be much, but it's what the fabric taught me today.