I am ashamed of myself.
My mother is a big support of my stitching. She has bought me things, gone with me to CATS, where she bought me the Dazor light I love almost as much as the twins. All she asks is that I . . . occasionally . . . stitch her something from her stash. And I, wretched ungrateful child that I am, always say, "Later, Ma, later."
Mostly, I think because she and I stitch very different things. She likes fancy beaded things. I tend to be more simple. And she likes things you have to finish--another type of thing I tend to avoid, I am not into fiddly.
But this is my mom. She's not getting any younger. She just turned 74. I know that's not old, but it's not like she's 30. So I am going to try to get some things finished for her. My mom deserves that. I grabbed her stash tote and took it with me when I left this morning after our visit. Please don't think that I am taking stuff she intended to stitch. She didn't; it was just waiting for me to run out of stash to do it. She knows I took it; I think a glimmer of hope came over her face as I peered at those bead-bedecked, fancy little tiny, must be put together designs, and cringed. And then gave her a smile.
She's my mom . . . and I love her.