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In the course of a one week long span in our home…


One kid called me crying from across the country, so sick with the Covid, she could barely function.


A different kid successfully received her driver’s permit, but then immediately refused to actually drive any sort of vehicle, because well you know, driving…


The last bookend had her own “You Have Officially Become a Woman” milestone, sharing the tea with me in a very matter of fact, “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got this,” sort of way.


And I booked a trip to Mardi Gras for part of my 50th birthday celebration.


Clearly, things in our homestead are stable.


As all of this unfolded, I began to think about the threads tangled up in the wheels of my mom’s sewing chair. The very fact that I even have my Foxy’s sewing chair is sort of a small miracle in itself.


You see, after Foxy went Home, the sewing machine and chair were gifted to a friend of mom’s who loved to sew, with the intention that these would be passed onto my girls one day. When that friend transitioned and went Home, the chair which would have been lost in the fires in Santa Rosa, was delivered safely back to my dad.


If you’re still following along, you are one committed reader, and I am impressed. You should know that!


You see, these sewing chair threads tangled up in the wheels mean nothing and everything.


These threads have the ability to magically transport me back to sitting on the floor in my mom’s sewing room, giving her unsolicited advice on what material would look “good” together. Politely, Foxy would listen, and playfully engage in the banter, as she carefully placed the swatches together, just right. As the sunlight shone in through the window, I understood clearly, this would not last forever. Secretly, I wished it would not end.


And so this life malarkey that I find myself getting caught up in, be it in regards to my family or work or the fucking Pandemic, will it be important in a week from now? A month? A year? 5 years?


What threads will I remember while I am here? How about my daughter feeling safe enough to call me when she was sick and crying it out. How about my other daughter, although excited she will be independently driving soon, is also secretly terrified of operating a moving tin can? Or how about my very last bean, asking me about syncing up with the big sisters, and how does that work? I just mumbled something about her eggs bursting wide open while mine are turning into raisins.


At this point, I think I will just keep coming back to the threads in my mom’s sewing room chair. The small moments that seek no attention, but will slip by, if I am not paying attention.


If it feels like a bit of a tangled mess right now, me too. Rest assured we each have our own threads to use as a compass to show us the way.


Sending You a Boatload of Love,

Me


**Dedicated to our sweet Kelly Kemmerly and her Mama**

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