Mother's Day

Yogurt and brown rice leap out of the refrigerator one afternoon when I am looking for my son's after school snack. The damn refrigerator is overcrowded. Taking one step, I slip in the yogurt, twist my ankle out of the alignment that keeps bones from breaking, and end up in a lower leg cast that provides just enough of an excuse to allow my husband and twelve year old son to take over some of my domestic responsibilities.


They walk the dog, vacuum, and sometimes order take-out even though it is possible for me to keep up with my healthy meals.

With some extra time, I eventually remember that as a child I enjoyed watching my mother cut out patterns and pin clothing onto a wire figure of herself. Is it possible, I wonder, for me to buy thrift shop pants, make adjustments then decorate the pants with needlepoint?

I start slacking off on my duties as a receptionist for my husbands inventions business. Although I have a Master of Library Science degree, I have only been able to consistently stick to homemaking while supporting the family business. In the past, academic librarian positions were dropped so I could try being a massage therapist, full-time Mom and part-time Mom on the school schedule. My career path has had obstacles.

Normally, I go to work at my husband's inventions business office Monday-Friday 9-1:00 to answer phones and wait on walk-in customers when my husband isn't too busy to talk to the customers himself. Because I understand little about turning ideas into products and less about patents, mostly I refer people to the expert.

Now, everyday before 9:00 a.m. I start loitering around Goodwill before they open their doors so I can get to the fresh new merchandise. I arrive at the inventions office further and further away from 9:00 a.m. and closer and closer to 10:00 a.m. My husband sits at the front desk as I approach the door. I breeze past what I perceive to be his sulky accusatory face and think about the thrift shop pants waiting for me in the car. At 1:00 I hobble out the door without making up the time as I think about the sewing machine waiting for me at home.  Sometimes I stop off for needlepoint patterns where a craft store lady eventually reveals that there's a fabulous website for finding customizable needlepoint patterns.  Employees at Goodwill set aside pants similar to the way librarians set aside books they know will appeal to a particular library patron.

After my ankle heals, I don't change my habits. Instead, I identify three female body types. Rather than try to find jeans in accommodating shapes and sizes, I ask my friends at Goodwill to simply set aside the largest jeans with the best material. Sometimes I bring them homemade muffins and we have coffee together while I look through the jeans. I cut and sew the large jeans to fit high waists, low waists, large and small women. The customizable needlepoint patterns on the website that the kind craft store lady pointed out can be altered to suit my imagination. I'm having a fabulous time.

My twelve-year-old son helps me take pictures of the jeans and post them for sale on Ebay.

“How come your selling your jeans for thirty dollars.”

“Your only twelve and already a business man like your father.”

“You spend all that time sewing on each one.”

“It's called needlepoint.”

“Maybe you should sell them for more.”

I looked at his concerned face and could only think of one thing to say.

“I'm having a lot of fun learning about Ebay with you. Maybe we could save some money for a trip to Florida to see your Grandparents.”

“That would be great”

Linking to my Creative Jeans Ebay page with a blog about the process, I discover the blogging craft world. My favorite blog to follow is on revamped antique jewelry.

When my brother-in-law, on my husband's side, comes to visit I spend the afternoon preparing an Italian version of chicken fricassee with tomatoes and olives served over polenta. He eats two helpings then, as though in cahoots with my husband, asks me if I found work.

I freeze for a long moment and finally say, “what kind of work?”

“She still works with me,” my husband chimes.

“I haven't been able to find a part-time librarian position. There are no jobs.” I throw that statement out without looking at either of what I imagine to be their disapproving faces.

That night I have a dream that my husband and his brother are discussing a computer chip implantation in my brain.

“The chip seems to be faltering in the focus for which it was designed.”

“We could implant a new chip.”

“Yes, but that could cause problems in another direction.”

“Is reprogramming a possibility?”

“We could try putting her back in the scanner.”

I wake up in a sweat after being conveyer belted halfway through an MRI type of machine.

My twelve-year-old and husband are holding a tray with pancakes. They are both smiling because it's Mother's Day.