Red, white, and blue, she brings me the scraps of material she’s haphazardly cut for her stuffed puppy.

“Mom, will you sew Heart Pup a dress?”

She has a long rectangular piece, two slivers for straps, and a shiny red strip for an accent belt. If this girl doesn’t grow up to do something in design I’ll be shocked.

My mother-in-law is a master seamstress. She could be the Betsy Ross of our time.

And I am just the opposite.

“I’m not promising anything, Sweets. If you want, you could take it to Nana.”
“Please, can we just try?”
“We’ll see.” My attempt to appease her and avoid any commitment for the time being. Which really means, based on my mood later it could as easily be a “yes” as it could a “no.” We. Will. See.

She caught me at a good time. Daddy took the boy with him while he played volleyball so it was us girls for the night. Dinner was cleaned up (it’s too bad the man who invented paper plates is dead because I’d kiss him), the house was moderately calm…”OK, sure. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“What does that mean, get my hopes up?”
“Like, don’t count on it being what you expect. It very well may not be. Like, it probably won’t.”
“Oh. Well, I’m still excited.”

I pull out the needles, dust them off, and find some thread. I don’t care the color. She won’t either. My only goal is to get these pieces to stick together and while I’m eyeballing the thread into that stupid, tiny hole I’m contemplating where the glue might be.
I loop, knot. It isn’t pretty but it’s working.

I remind her, “Even if I get it together, it may not stay.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” When did she grow up so much?
I poke myself, get tangled in the loose lines, and will whoever is singing Kumbaya in my ear please stop.
The moment of truth comes when I try to slide this uneven, frayed, hot mess of a dress on my daughter’s dearest friend.

I’m happy to report, it fits, it’s hideous, she knows and still loves it, we didn’t have the stamina for the belt, and Nana will never see this. Ever.