I have always enjoyed a good craft project. I blame it on my years in Brownies, summer day camp and my mother. There wasn’t a sleepover or party my sister and I hosted as kids that did not include a craft project. There was my birthday sleepover when I was in the fifth grade where we made sachets that could be hung on your closet door. There was the Christmas we made our friends and teachers make-up bags out of cloth place mats. There were the hand-made Christmas ornaments. I was always slightly embarrassed by this — we didn’t do crafts at other people’s houses — but then many, many years later, I ran into an old classmate who commented that she always loved coming to sleepovers at our house because of the crafts.
During college and those early adult years, I didn’t have time for hand-made gifts, and after all, I had a real job. I could just BUY a gift. The slippery slope back into craft world began when my sister got married a couple of years ago. As a shout out to our childhood party past, I created craft time at the bridal shower I threw — make your own wine charms while I pour you a mimosa. Now that I’ve had a child, it appears that the crafting gene is kicking in hard core.
A few months ago, I had this “brilliant” idea to make for Christmas gifts (which I can’t disclose here since some of you who read this may well be receiving them!). And now, with peanut’s first birthday quickly approaching, I’m in full on craft mode making decorations. My dining room table is buried under construction paper, pipe cleaner, glue sticks (that my mother still puts in our Christmas stockings (that she made) each year) and scissors. I even made a special trip to Michael’s this morning.
Why? Will my peanut remember them? No. But I will. Perhaps it’s a mother’s prerogative to control the commemoration of a day where we had absolutely no control just a year prior, where we were simply following the lead of our bodies, our doctors and our midwives. Perhaps it’s my way of focusing on something else for the next month instead of the fact that my little peanut isn’t so little anymore. Perhaps it’s my way of having the party I want while I still can (you know, before peanut is old enough to demand a Spider Man cake that I’ll attempt to make (badly) or all things Thomas the Train). Or, heaven help me, maybe I just like crafts (gasp!).
Well then, just call me Martha (my gal pal I’ll call “Queen Bee in DC” has for years). Better yet, just call me “mom” after the woman who taught me everything I really need to know about this gig, including that you can’t really have too many glue sticks.