There is a vivid memory in the back of my head of learning to cross-stitch. I was little, I don’t know how old. I had watched my mother do needle-work many times and I think I must have been thrilled when she gave me a piece of cross-stitch fabric of my own. The funny part is that my dad is the one who taught me how to do it. He cross-stitched my name, Raimie, on the piece of cloth, showing me how to make the x’s. From there I continued by making lines of stitching under my name. Sewing every-other, every other with different colors of thread. I have that little thing somewhere. I should find it and show it to my daughter.
The other day she asked if she could learn to sew. I almost said no and put her off until another day. In my mind I was older than her when I learned but really, when I thought about it, I must have been about her age. I threaded the needle for her, put the cloth in a needle-working hoop, wrote her pattern in pencil and showed her how to make a stitch.
After about half an hour of silence I went to check on her. She had already formed most of the letters. I know it’s easy for parent to think their children are amazing… it has to do with all those hormones, pheromones and other ‘mones, whatever. But seriously, I was shocked…. I really didn’t think she had the patience, coordination of diligence to work at it so well.
After just a few trips to me to un-tie knots and change thread color -- thank goodness, I like to feel just a little needed -- she finished up her very first sampler.
The moral of the story,
If she can do that, she can certainly do her own laundry.
Thoughts of a Mother in NE