Turning Into My Mother

Because of her, I love the sound of a sewing machine. It might as well be the rhythm of my mom’s heartbeat, a sound I only associate with her.

“Momma! We don’t put needles in our mouths!” My 6-year-old daughter, Liesel, scolded me with all the authority of a parent. The patchwork quilt I’ve been working on lay in my lap. I was cutting a piece of string to continue hand sewing the binding, the final step in the quilt-making process. Only having two hands and concerned I’d lose my needle if I sat it down I stuck it in my mouth like a toothpick.

It wasn’t the first time she’s caught me with a sewing needle in my mouth and it certainly won’t be the last. It was one of those “do as I say not as I do” moments you have as a parent. Funny enough, I remember having very similar conversations with my own mom.

My mom is a wonderful seamstress. She made clothes for us as kids, epic Halloween costumes, and fun creations like a puppet show curtain that hung in a door frame suspended by a tension rod. Because of her, I love the sound of a sewing machine. It might as well be the rhythm of my mom’s heartbeat, a sound I only associate with her. The gentle hum of a sewing machine will always transport me back to the bonus room in my childhood home where my mom would be working on sewing project after project. Her list of things she wanted to make was endless and she seemed determined to do them all.

Then (and even now) I was certain my mom could make anything if she wanted to. At 36 years old the sound of the sewing machine is still so special, it’s like a familiar lullaby that soothes me and quiets my brain, it makes me feel warm and full of hope in the way that you only really feel when reminiscing on fond childhood memories.

My mom taught me how to sew, but she also taught me how to put a needle in my mouth and then to tell my daughter to never put one in hers.

It’s not the only way in which I see myself turning into my mother as I get older. I’ve always heard the old adage where, without warning, you wake up one day only to realize you’ve become your mother. Fortunately, in my case, it’s an honor to become the woman who raised me.

I wonder if the cycle will continue. I already see so much of myself in Liesel. Much of her childhood is filled with the same sights and sounds as my own—a mom who makes and creates as if she’s running out of time. It’s easy to imagine a future where she looks down at her sweet rule-following daughter and says, “I know, baby, you’re right. I shouldn’t have put the needle in my mouth.” And then she’ll laugh to herself and think, “I sound just like my mom.”