Family Daze

Modern mom's trials occur in plenty of good company

By Debbie Farmer

When my daughter received her first Brownie badge, called a "Try-it," I did what any other modern woman of the '90s would've done: I congratulated her, then flipped it over to find the adhesive strip so I could attach it onto her uniform sash.

"Mommy, what are you doing?" my daughter said. "You have to sew it on."

Sew it? At first I thought she was kidding. Then real panic set in when I realized she wasn't.

Let me just say that I am the type of person whose sewing kit contains a bunch of dull pins, some dental floss, and a stapler. I acquired my only domestic training in the home economics class I was forced to take in high school because the art classes were full. I spent the entire semester trying to thread the sewing machine. And the one time I managed to turn it on, it trapped my sleeves under the bobbin and stitched a seam up my right arm before I could pull the cord out of the wall with my foot.

I had a feeling I was wasting everybody's time, especially the teacher's. According to her, I had absolutely no eye for detail, my stitches were too big, and my fine motor skills were equivalent to that of an inebriated monkey. And that, she implied to my mother, was sugar coating it. Fifteen years later, I still haven't figured out how to make tiny, even stitches, and the last time I saw our sewing machine it was holding up the back end of my husband's car while he changed the tire.

But I was determined to sew on my daughter's badge. So I spit on my fingertips, closed one eye and threaded a needle. I concentrated and tried to remember how to make a stitch. Any stitch. After several tries I realized that I wasn't dealing with just ordinary embroidered fabric. It was obviously special material made from bulletproof vests. And the name "Try-it" didn't stand for encouragement at all. It was more of a dare aimed at the mothers, as in "you will never be able to sew this onto your daughter's Brownie sash no matter what you do--go ahead, sucker, try-it."

About an hour later my eyes were watering and all of my important fingers were wrapped in Band-Aids, but I had finally attached the Kevlar patch securely onto the sash. The embroidered triangle was a masterpiece proving beyond all doubts that I was an involved, caring mother. I proudly offered my labor of love to my daughter.

"Mom," she said. "It's upside down."

At first I was just surprised she could make out the design through all the stitches. But, when the meaning of her words finally sank in, I did what any intelligent, enlightened mother would do: I denied it.

When she received three more "Try-it's" at her next meeting, I clenched my teeth into a smile and tried to look excited. Then I opened a bottle of glue and slathered it onto the sash.

"What are you doing, Mommy?" my daughter asked.

"Sewing on your patches," I said.

I was impressed with my ingenuity--until the patches started curling up at the corners and falling off. And I knew that just as soon as my daughter wore her Brownie uniform in public, the word would be out on the street: I was severely domestically challenged and it was truly a miracle I'd made it as far along in the world as I had.

But, at the next meeting, I was stunned to find out most of the mothers had the same kind of home economics training as I had. One mother stapled the patches to her daughter's sash while another used a set of diaper pins. My friend Linda, whom I've always looked upon as a perfect mother, had traced her daughter's patches onto the sash with washable laundry pens.

Suddenly I knew everything would be okay. I didn't even mind when my daughter brought home five new Try-its that day. I just did what any other modern woman of the '90s would do: I congratulated her, then went into the garage to find the duct tape.

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Readers can reach Debbie Farmer at familydaze@home.com.

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