A diary of marriage, parenting, life in the tundra, and Golden Retrievers.
What A Husband Will Do To Make His Wife Stop Crying
When I was growing up, I had a blanket that my mom embroidered for me while she was pregnant. I kept it until I was at least 24 years old. Mom finally (but gently) reminded me that it was probably time to let it go. After all, I was about to become a wife.
I'll never forget how pretty it was. She had hand-stitched four quilt blocks and sewn them into a soft, fuzzy, yellow fabric.
Before Mom got sick, she taught me to embroider. I was pregnant with Murray, and I wanted him to have a blanket that he cherished and loved as much as the one I had. Mom's embroidery wasn't fancy; just simple, beautiful stitches. When we found out that she had cancer, I would sit next to her at the hospital or at home, and work on quilt squares for my own little one. Those little tiny stitches even helped my when I was at home and worried sick about Mom, and couldn't have wine - oh the horror - because I was expecting.
I never did finish the quilt (I can't sew, so our deal was that if I finished the stitching, she would put it together for me). After she died, the idea of completing the project was just too much. So I packed it all away, with the promise that someday, I would go back to it. I didn't realize it would take me this long. Today, I unearthed those pieces with the idea that I'd finish them for my the next addition to our family. I want to get that last square done so that my niece, who will arrive in April, will have a blanket that she loves as much as I loved mine.
I tried all day to get the stitching just right, the way Mom showed me. But I couldn't. I Googled it, I I tried the 'over under' approach, and I attempted a back stitch (I don't even know what the heck that is).
Look at this: Can you tell the difference between then and now? Even back then, my embroidery wasn't great, but it was a heck of a lot better than it is today.
When Craig came home from work today, he found me with a pile of embroidery floss and needles, drowning in tears. I wanted my Mom. She would have been able to help me.
Craig gently pulled the hoop from my hands, sat in his chair, and worked on my failed stitching until he figured out my mistakes. He didn't get it perfect, but he got me back on track. As I was weeping for my Mom, I was giggling. I don't know very many men who would work on a sewing project just to stop his wife from being sad. What a guy.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I married well.