Missing my bookbag

If anyone reading my blog has a simple pattern for a child's book bag please let me know.

My mother has never been crafty. She enjoys things others make immensely, and appreciates handmade treasures and cares for them in the same way as if she were a crafter herself. Has anyone ever noticed that? It seems that ladies who are talented in the way of handcrafts usually appreciate the work and creativity that goes into handmade items more than the casual shopper of craft items... but my mother really appreciates handmade items, and seeks them out. Perhaps this is connected to her baking, which is from scratch. I have always seen baking as an extension of crafting- an art form in itself.

But my mother has only once tried her own hand at creating aside from the culinary arts.

My second grade year my mother was roped into making book bags for the classroom because she was one of only a handful of stay at home moms at our school. My mother had never used a sewing machine, and certainly didn't while away her days knitting and crocheting my sister and I dresses and pretty bonnets. She spent time gardening, or visiting with her sisters and letting my sister and I enjoy a play group. Unable to admit she wasn't very much of a seamstress, she accepted.

She went out and bought a plethora of fabrics and trims. She borrowed my grandmothers sewing machine. And she spent the next couple weeks every evening making book bags.

There was a particularly pretty denim she had that I wanted for my book bag. A blue jean book bag would be very fashionable, and I liked the shade of blue. I had my eye on it the entire time she was working on the bags. But, as she finished up sewing one bag that she had spent twice the time on she had the others, she held up a blue calico and lace bag and announced proudly that it was for ME. That my bag would be the prettiest one in the classroom, and she had designed it especially for me.

Now I am stuborn. Always have been. I didn't even look at the bag she made. I pulled a blue jean one from the pile, put my hands on my hips and announced that THIS was my bag. My mom said "Just look at the one I made you- its prettier" I would not budge. I had my eye on that denim fabric since the moment it came into the house and thats what I wanted.

The next day we took the bags to school. They were put in the center of the room, except that the children whose mothers crafted bags were first allowed to choose their own. I chose my denim bag. Then, all the girls were allowed to choose a bag and the very first bag chosen from the remaining bags was the one my mother handmade especially for me. A little girl held it up in the air victoriously and announced it was the prettiest bag she had ever seen. All the girls sighed and exclaimed at its absence from the lot as none of the other bags were as stylish or pretty. And for the first time I looked at it. I saw it not from my little 7 year old stubborn eyes, but from the perspective of the girl whose mother hadn't made her anything so special, and who appreciated all the special details and rick rack added to this and only this bag. And my heart sank. It really was the nicest bag in the entire classroom and I could see all the work and particular details my mother had put into this bag ESPECIALLY FOR ME. I felt stupid and guilty and wished I could have that bag.

Had I known years and years later that I would still see that book bag in my mind so clearly, and that it would of been the only item my mother ever made from hand for me, I would of chose that bag. I wouldn't of taken it to school though- I would of saved it to carry to church. It was very worthy of a Sunday school ensemble.

I asked my mother today if I bought her some calico fabric, lace, rick rack and a denim pocket (my bag was the only one with a center pocket) if she would please make me a book bag. She laughed and said she had things from her childhood that she had said or done to her mother that she also still regretted. I told her it would mean something to me to have her make a bag, now, as an adult when I could truly appreciate it. The interesting part is my mother perfectly remembered my bag and described the details to me that I had forgotten.

No pictures for this post- I tried to find an example of my bag, and couldn't.