I am an over-the-moon, first-time grandmother-to-be who can’t seem to do what many have done before me. That is, make the baby a quilt.
The baby’s 89-year-old great-grandmother made one. By hand. She apparently sat in front of the TV for weeks and stitched together dozens of one-inch squares, which she presented at the couple’s baby shower before 30 friends and family, who all but gave the soon-to-be nonagenarian a standing ovation.
Likewise, my son’s former colleague, a busy, full-time researcher who Chris hasn’t seen in years, nonetheless took time to make a quilt with six big bunny appliqués, which she FedEx-ed to the couple from three time zones away.
As for me, Devoted and Only Paternal Grandmother, throughout Kate’s pregnancy, I have written poems to mama, papa and baby. I have gifted the trio with baby books and memory books, stuffed animals and a luxurious hiking backpack.
I decided early on, meanwhile, that my noteworthy gift to the baby would be a hand-stitched quilt. This would be the lasting memento, the treasure that would comfort the baby when he has colic, and in later years would prove how much his grandma loved him. And it would come to be, I deemed, despite my not knowing how to use a sewing machine, nor hand-sewing anything of any significance in decades.
While I did teach myself to hand-stitch a quilt for my youngest child before he was born, while I sewed and embroidered keepsake pillows for the other two when they were babies, it had been 25 years, and the learning curve, I knew, would be a hairpin highway.
Still, not to be outdone by Great-Grandma or Chris’ friend, I dug out my old thimbles and quilting needles. I spent some time on Etsy being inspired by Kate’s favorite Beatrix Potter fabric for the top, and found a soft flannel gingham yellow for the back. I dared to order the fabric, and I laid Peter Rabbit and friends in a prominent place in my bedroom to remind me.
And remind me.
And remind me.
