O Mother Where Art Thou

Just in case anyone is confused or has lost track of the calendar, Mother's Day is next Sunday. I typically anticipate Mother's Day because the orders start flowing in and I get to use some of my creative powers to fashion some fru fru for moms across the country. I like the feeling of making something special and imagining their reaction when they open the package. I like making gifts that I would want to receive. It's a feel-good kind of moment for me as I drop all of my packages off with the kind lady at the post office. (There is really a kind lady at the post office. Her name is Dixie and the kids will actually jockey for position in line so that we get to check out with her.)

You know what they say, though, about the cobbler's children not having new shoes. I'm afraid that I get so busy hustling and bustling to get my orders finished, that I never put quite as much energy into a present for my own Mom. Granted, her standards are pretty low. She likes to spend time with her family, and she appreciates the efforts we put into a nice meal, etc. She never asks for anything in particular. Until this year.

Some time ago I volunteered to make new porch cushions for my dear Mother. I have cut out the fabric, made the cording, and have the cushion material all ready. I just haven't quite made it to the part of the program where you actually sit down at the sewing machine and stitch it all together, cover the cushions and place them nicely on her front porch furniture. My dear Mr.C. has even offered to help me. You see, the porch cushion project currently resides in the garage - Mr.C.'s  domain - and I believe he has just about had enough of sharing his man space with yet another fabric project of mine.

Granted, my Mom did not say anything about the barren porch furniture for an extended period of time, but last week she made one request for Mother's Day. It was not one of those very cute market baskets that I sell on my website, nor was it a funky monogrammed necklace from a line that I just started carrying. If I haven't already led you far enough down the road to see where I'm going with this ... she asked that I finish the porch cushions.

It's going to be a beautiful spring weekend here in South Carolina. Mr. C.  is not going to have to work as much, and while I'd love to veg out on the deck and enjoy the sunshine with my family, I'm afraid I'll be up in my workroom trying to piece together this project. Yes, I'm whining just a bit, but I will finish. After all, my Mom certainly didn't give up halfway through the labor and delivery process. I do owe her, and pretty porch furniture is certainly a pittance in comparison.

Much love to all the Moms out there.

Hunting for a Date

My quandary this morning, and in my life there is always a quandary, was whether I should share what I saw at dinner Saturday night, or the reason that I gave Little He and Little She brownies for breakfast yesterday. As compelling as the arguments may be, I think it is necessary to share this little nugget pulled from the depths of a casual dining experience with the family.

Let me begin with a little background. I love the south. I love grits. I love the traditions that accompany everything from whom is allowed to bring deviled eggs on Easter, to which recipe for giblet gravy should be served on Thanksgiving (and if it's at my parents' house, the gravy must be served from a turkey pitcher that looks as if the gobbler is ... losing his lunch, shall we say).

That being said, my introduction to the hunter and gatherer lifestyle did not occur until I met Mr. C. He introduced me to camouflage, duck hunting and cooking wild game. I still have reservations, but will cook anything that is already cleaned and butchered, and it must be said that I did spend part of our first anniversary 7 months pregnant in a dove field.

Mr. C has obliged me in one area. Camouflage is for the field (or river, or marsh, or forest), but not for public display. Little He and Little She have been introduced to it, but will not don camo for play dates. These are the rules.

Enter the restaurant. Saturday night in April, small Southern town. Prom night. At least five or six large tables of prom goers. On our way to the restroom I had to pick my jaw up off the floor as we passed by a table of two couples. The boys were wearing tuxedos, and I thought I saw a glimpse of a camouflage vest. I was only mildly interested until I looked over towards their dates. The girls - both of them - were wearing camouflage prom dresses. I could not stop staring. Luckily, Little She is a busy diner and provided the perfect cover for continuing to scope out the situation. She likes to visit the salad bar and restroom, so I had several opportunities to feed my curiosity.

I kept thinking that some nice, well-meaning grandmother must have hand tailored these oddities, requested by some eager-to-please teenage girls. But, no, google "camouflage prom dress" and see what pops up. These things are mass manufactured and marketed. If you so desired, you could even order a camouflage wedding dress.

It was the best people watching experience I've had in a good while. Mr. C doesn't typically comment on fashion, but he did note the profound use of neon-ish colors on many of the girls. Little He didn't really have an opinion on prom one way or another, and Little She loved the sequins and shoes. I, on the other hand, sit here three days later still pondering camouflage prom dresses. Now, I have acceded to the fact that if the girls had called me to add a bright orange monogram on the front, I might have had a completely different take on the situation.

Just in case you're wondering about brownies for breakfast, we can just chalk that up to a stressed out Mom wanting to smooth over a very rough Monday morning. And if you're now wondering whether it works or not, it does, but on Tuesday, they're going to ask for brownies again.

OCD

I've been sitting in front of my computer for hours. Literally hours, trying to find the exact shade of brown I'd like for this text to be, and worrying about what I would write in my very first post to the world. Of course, I don't have any followers, so it is likely that my current self-inflicted tizzie really only impacts one person - ME.

There is the possibility that it also affects Little She, my three-year-old shadow who REALLY thinks that the letters I'm typing on the computer should be pink.

In fact, when I left the laptop for a few minutes, she did manage to change the font to a perfect shade of bubble gum. The necessary background information here is that Little She is not allowed to have bubble gum until she's five. Therefore, everything she does revolves around this futuristic time in which she will be able to chew gum. Her room is bubble gum pink, her rug is bubble gum pink, she tells the checkout ladies at our grocery that she only has two more birthdays until she can chew bubble gum. I wouldn't be surprised if she went into public relations for the National Bubble Gum Council.

This bubble gum age limit seemed like a fabulous rule when I came up with it on the spur of the moment. I was faced with a near disastrous situation involving a bubble gum laden treat bag that she brought home from Preschool. All I could focus on was the certainty of a bubble gum covered minivan and no way to take it away from her while still keeping the car within the margins of my lane. I simply stated the new rule, and she, albeit surprisingly, obliged.

The down side of having the power to make all the rules is that you then have to live with the consequences of said rules. As I continue to sit in the driver's seat nodding my head through the interminable discussions surrounding bubble gum, I begin to have second thoughts on the pleasures of rule making.

I believe I miscalculated her obsession.

Then again, maybe Little She and I are more alike than I'd like to admit at times.

The text is a lovely shade of brown, though. Isn't it?