I made a pair of curtain panels this week. I haven’t sewn for 100 days. I altered a few Prom dresses before Jake’s transplant, but prior to Jake getting sick, I would have said I was addicted to sewing. My personal hobby turned into sewing for other people years ago. I wish I would have kept a scrapbook of everything I had sewn over the years. It made me think of my mom. I could hear her, you need to quit sewing. You do too much. You need to say no. I would argue back just for the fun of it. “Why do you care, Mom?” You don’t charge enough. “Ok so when I die, do you think Jesus is going to be mad because I didn’t charge enough? ” She’d pause- let it go, and later we’d have the same argument. I don’t know why it bothered her so much. We were alike, yet so different. I liked nothing more than to zig when she wanted me to zag; to be the rebel, but she usually ended up liking my choices. I should have dressed punk or Goth to irritate my mom, but I dressed preppy which only irritated my friends. Mother loved it. She thought double pierced ears were tacky, so I went up to my bedroom and pierced them myself. She got over it. Later she had hers double pierced. She cried when I chose a state university over a private school. She ended up loving it, and my dad loved the price. I married a Wyoming cowboy after a very short engagement -she loved him. As hard as I tried, my biggest rebellion was not keeping my house cleaned to her standards. I would vacuum and put the contents in a Ziploc just to freak her out. Sometimes she would drive me crazy, but usually we just laughed. I really miss shopping with her. She was slow as a turtle and could have gone somewhere everyday just to look. I only go to the mall when absolutely necessary. I get in and out, and I don’t go extra places. For some reason, when we were younger, I could shop for 12 hours with her. We had fun. I chose not to argue with my daughter over her personal tastes. Life is too short. Next week I’m hoping to go with her when she gets her first tattoo. I approve; I just don’t know if I’m invited. I would love to be able to tell my mom what we are doing- she would throw a fit, and I would have enjoyed getting her riled up. Miss you, Mom!