My daughter is an artist. Someday, her dream is to go to art school, or fashion design school, or to study architecture. She is lucky enough that at Pretentious High School, there are actual classes in Fashion Design and Construction. I think we used to call it Home Ec.

Today I needed to schlep her around to different art stores, and craft stores, and fabric stores to get supplies for some of her classes. Usually her father does this with her. Yes, her dad is the arts-and-crafts parent. He is the one who taught her to sew. As he says, "It's another machine. What dude doesn't like machines?" Yes, he's very secure.

I wish I liked doing this with her. I like doing just about everything else with her. But fabric stores in particular make me twitchy. I remember hours and hours and hours spent sitting at pattern tables while my mother thumbed through those catalogues: Butterick, Simplicity, McCall's. (Even in later years the Vogue catalogue.) I was bored stiff. I remember telling my mother: "I'm not going to make my clothes when I'm grown up. I'm going to have enough money to buy my clothes in the store." Why my mother did not slap me silly for my rudeness is a testament to her graciousness.

Today I found myself back at those tables with the big catalogues. The names haven't changed much. Neither has my impatience, but I sucked it up and let her thumb through catalogue after catalolgue looking for just the right pattern. It took every ounce of forbearance I had. Then it was on to fabrics, notions, lining, thread, interfacing, then the cutting table. I found I was able to give her hints now and then, to point her in the right direction as far as reading the measurements on the back of the pattern envelope.

It seems that all those hours schlepping with my Mom to the fabric stores were not wasted after all. I wish she could see her Wonder Girl in action. I wish we didn't live so far away...