|Wilder in a store bought costume|
When Pinterest first came around I was a fan. I spent way too much time pinning things like a 65-layer dessert with just five easy ingredients or 365 super yummy cheap healthy crockpot meals. But I never did any of them and started to realize this Pinterest phenom is kind of giving us non-crafting moms a bad name.
I can sew (it was a phase in college — think homemade hippie tops and curtains and pillows). I can decoupage (it was a phase post college — anything standing still too long got a custom photo and layer of mod podge). I just have no space (what with 65 sippy cups that need to go somewhere) and even less time (what with the working and keeping Wilder alive, fed and moderately clean).
I thought I’d be one of those moms who took a pic every month in the same chair with a sign or special onesie. Instead I have nearly 3,000 iPhone pics that are completely unorganized and a baby book with a page and a half filled.
I have these twinges of guilt when I see some moms with their fall pumpkin craft projects. Then it makes me think of Liv Tyler in Empire
Records all baking cupcakes and popping pills with her “24 usable hours in every day,” and while I’m not saying people who do all those craft projects are junkie moms or anything, I do question whether some might be vampires who need no sleep.
I read a blog a while back about how what our children will remember is the time we spent with them and not how crafty we were. If mommyhood is judged by how many hot glue gun sticks you go through in a year, I’m dead last. I know moms who love the crafty thing. It’s their therapy. I think they need to see a therapist about it. But if it brings you a measure of relaxation, then more power to ya.
But for the rest of us, it’s one more source of mommy guilt.
When I think of these things I’ve failed to do and cringe, I think of my mom — what I remember from my childhood — and I find some measure of comfort. I remember she was always warm (still is). And huggy (definitely still is). She cooked dinner every night after work.
She mended things and hemmed pants here and there. She rarely (despite her best intentions) finished a sewing project like those pajama pants she saw no reason to buy because they’d just be “a cinch to whip up.” I never remember doing anything crafty. But I remember her. Always her. Always there. Working and pulling in on two wheels putting on lipstick and singing Sandi Patty. But always there. Ever present. And never failing to make us feel special and loved.
I hope in that way I am my mother’s daughter. Despite my best intentions, I’ll not likely ever make those burlap wreaths or perfectly iced hand-dyed cupcakes. But that’s OK. I’d like to think I’m busy making memories. That Wilder will remember relentless hugs and kisses. And I’ll pin the sound of his sweet laugh in my heart — better than anything I’ve pinned on my 13 Pinterest boards by far.
IND Monthly Style Editor Amanda Bedgood and her husband, Mike (who will contribute to this column), have a 23-month-old son, Wilder.