Ever since I became a mother in 1991, I thought that Mother's Day was all about me. My own mother became an accessory to my big celebration of me.

My mother died in 2006, and I hate that Mother's Day is about me now. I wish I could go back and undo that. Here's a tribute to her that I had the presence of mind to write and give to her for her last Mother's Day.

You know every special event merits the question, “What will you wear?” and then, let the costuming begin! When I was born, Mommy let her creative juices run wild, sewing me dress after dress from fat quarters and 25¢ bins. It got to the point that her mother remarked, “I see you’re still dressing dolls!”

Doll clothes turned to bigger and better costumes. Mommy loses track of how many black dresses she’s made over the years. You audition for the orchestra. You get in! You are responsible for you own concert attire. The only requirement—it must be a long black dress. Mommy and I experimented with different fabrics over the years. In the end, I had a warm weather dress made of satin, and a cold weather dress made of velvet. She ordered a special dancer’s dress for me to take to Europe—it couldn’t wrinkle.

There’s my recital dresses, my prom dress, and my wedding dress—truly exquisite. Mommy never stopped with making my clothes. Then she made Curtis a Star Trek suit for Halloween, and every costume Yanni ever wore for that occasion.

I keep giving her babies to dress; Esteban recently splashed in the sprinkler in multi-colored hand crocheted swim trunks. I never took to sewing like that—much to Mommy’s chagrin, Yanni could. She’s certainly got the costume bug, much to Mommy’s joy.

It’s been nice to be originally dressed, and to wade through the mine field of what’s appropriate and what’s not. I have had an all-knowing guide all my life. And she cared for me in a way in which I struggle to take care of my children.

I never wanted for clothes, (unless you count that brief period in High School when I lost 25 pounds), yet my children threaten to be cartoon characters, their wardrobes are so limited. Mommy’s brand of providing for your children is a dying art.

Women have bigger fish to fry, dragons to slay, money to make. . . even crafts have become the cutting paper and pressing stickers to photograph variety. Nothing challenging, time consuming. Mommy would put in the hours to make something from scratch, whether it was clothes, art, jewelry, textiles, or food.

It still rankles her when she can’t master a craft. She never really got the hang of weaving. Pity. She has a huge loom out on her studio. She is still working it out on various hand looms made of cardboard. I’m sure she’ll master the more complicated weaving someday when she really puts her mind to it.

She is always picking up a new ‘how-to’ book on some new craft. Perhaps this is why crafts intimidate me. I have seen how difficult they can be, and the learning curve can be intolerable for me.

I don’t know how she can try new crafts without fear of failure or ridicule, condemnation, all the stupid things that get in my way. I think a craft has to be an art.

Mommy sees the value in learning something. The value in idle hands are the devil’s workplace. Mommy’ hands are never idle. And the arthritis that plagues her knees has left her hands alone. The last quilt I made, my thumbs were numb after I worked on it. Mommy has made countless quilts without complaint.

I live in the shadow of her needle. Thank you, Mommy, for all the love you have put into everything you have made throughout my lifetime. You have blessed me, and so many others. It has not been in vain.

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