The Sewing Room

I can't remember how many pictures we had growing up with my sister and I posing, wearing matching dresses. Most sisters have similar memories. But Sara and I had a mother that made several dresses for us a year with floral designs, extremely low waists, and poofy sleeves; and usually a satin bow made it's way into the outfit, normally atop a spouting ponytail. We had Christmas dresses and Easter dresses, and the occasional mid-year dress because fabric was on sale.

Mom majored in Home Economics and knew her way around a sewing pattern. Most of the time, she barely even looked. In each of our homes (except the Princeton apartment from ages 5-8), there was a room dedicated to her sewing. That was completely normal to me. Sara's room, Bec's room, Sewing room. The ironing board was there, possibly old frocks and coats in the closet, but the room consisted of her sewing machine, table, and a stool for us to stand on for measurements. Growing up, I didn't even realize that mom was participating in something creative or enjoyable. I honestly thought all moms did this. And I certainly had no understanding of how talented she was.

In college, I remember making fun of a co-worker at Barnes and Noble because she and her friends would get together and sew exotic-looking clothes from the Renaissance Era. (Ok, perhaps there's a lot to tease about this). The sewing, however, seemed stranger to me than the choice of era. I thought to myself, "Who sews besides Moms with nothing to do?" Rude, yes. But, nevertheless, it's what I thought.

I first changed my narrow mind about this craft when one my best friends from college...the friend who has always been one step ahead of me towards "cool"...the friend who I rely on for an annual mixed cd so I can be in-the-know...told me she was taking a sewing class. She even made curtains for her modern condo. Hmmm. "Maybe I don't have to be so close-minded afterall."

At MOPS, I struggled with the idea of doing crafts bi-monthly with other moms. I never had been able to see myself finding pleasure in such maternal triteness. But over time, I began to look forward to the glue sticks and markers. This shouldn't have surprised me so much. In high school, I ran with the theater and music crowd and could also be found in the art wing working on sculptures, paintings, or developing my own film. Creativity, I felt, was in my blood. But scrapbooking, sewing, and crafting seemed to be in a different category, and it took months before I could really admit to myself that I liked it. And even longer before I could admit that I loved it.

After the flower pin awakening, I began doing collaboration pieces with flowers, frames, and the ever-popular artistic use of phrases and words. I even got up the guts to ask at local boutique owner if I could sell my pieces in her store. She said yes. I haven't decided if she said yes with a sense of obligation because I was a regular shopper or if she really did, in fact, like the flowers. Still, I brought them in with a picture frame that displayed the "Becca Bee" logo proudly. (The previous night, Josh helped me design a logo and come up with "Becca Bee" as the name for my designs. I was thankful we landed on that; otherwise, it would've ended up atrociously called "Whispering Petals" or some other generic phrase that sounds like a desperate poem title). She put them right by the register and came up with a price. Becca Bee designs was born.

It's amazing how things in life really do come full circle, and how you'll end up doing things you never, ever thought you would do. I've always trusted my artful eye. I know how to put an outfit together, where to hang picture frames, and what to purchase from Hobby Lobby to make a room 100% complete. I can feel the rhythm of music in my bones and know that a beat is working, that a harmony is missing, or that one string on a guitar is out of tune. I'm not that great at any of these, just comfortable enough to trust my own judgment. But I never thought this creative energy would end up with needles, thread, scissors, paint, scrapbooks, and glue. I feel...in some small un-admitable way...like my mom. Especially when I'm stitching, ever-particularly, the fabric petals of the flowers.

I wouldn't even be surprised if Jackson grew up with the reality that mom is busy; she needs to measure your inseams; she's in the sewing room.