WARNING - There is cursing to follow. You have been warned.
For many years now, I have told the story of the time I called my mother a "Fucking Bitch". For those that haven't heard the story, I shall regale you.
A little bit of history first:
Once upon a time, my uncle gave me a Snoopy plush. This became THAT stuffed toy that I took EVERYWHERE with me. He was my security object of choice. He protected me from nightmares, he fueled my imagination, and was my constant companion through the adventures of my early childhood. Snoopy was everything to me.
This, is a Flicker. It is a rotating, five in one, disposable razor. They were rather popular in the late 70s and early 80s. You can still find them, but it's one of those nostalgic moments, especially for me. My mother loved them and I loved playing with them. I liked to figure out how they worked. I liked to rotate them because of the cool sound they made as they turned. And yes, I learned rather quickly that I could not shave off my finger prints without serious pain. My mother was constantly getting mad at me for 'flicking her Flicker'.
I was six years old and watching late night TV with my grandmother. My mother was in the shower, until...
I remember my mother stomping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. The Flicker was in her hand and she was LIVID. She stood between me and the TV, mostly to get my attention, but also to make sure I was listening. I had flicked her Flicker for the last time. To be honest, I really don't remember what she said. It was very much a Peanuts moment where the adults sound like "Wah wa, wah wah wa wha," from the cartoon. Her words were a blur of sound until she grabbed Snoopy away from me.
It was in that moment that she looked at me and said, "You are going to learn what it means to respect other people's things." With the body of my Snoopy in one hand, and Snoopy's ear in the other, she separated Snoopy from his ear. Then she handed Snoopy and his ear back to me.
I don't remember what she ranted about, because she was still yelling. She yelled at me for what seemed like hours. I couldn't have cared less about the yelling. My best friend in the whole wide galaxy was broken in my hands. I didn't see stuffing and broken thread where the ear had been attached. I saw blood pouring from a wound and brains protruding from a broken skull. Snoopy was dying in my arms, squeaking his last breath, vowing to haunt the evil that had done this to him. He bequeathing me his red dog house and made me promise to avenge him.
Interesting the mind of a child. In the time it took for me to imagine all these things, my mother managed to say her piece to me. She stood there with her arms crossed in front of her chest, glowering down at me, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
I did. I had a lot to say. With all the hate and loathing a six year old could muster, still holding the dead remains of my best friend in my arms. I looked up at her, tears welling, but not yet falling from my eyes. My mouth opened and I spoke with the vile and venom of a super villain in the making, "You Fucking Bitch!"
Time moved in slow motion for the next several moments. I watched as my mother's face contorted into shock, and then rage. I didn't move, in fact I planted me feet defiantly. I was going to take anything she was going to throw at me. I had to avenge my friend's death after all. I was so concentrated on her face, that I didn't see her hand move, quicker than lightening. I didn't see it coming. I didn't see anything but stars and blackness for a few seconds.
Then, blinking the extremely bright light and whirling stars from my eyes, I was against the wall, on my butt. My mom was standing a few feet away, her hands over her mouth in shock. My grandmother off the couch coming to check on me. Apparently, in that moment after I had spouted words, no six year old should EVER use towards a parent, my mother had back handed me so hard that I flew backwards about two feet to hit the wall.
On further inspection, I was bleeding and there was talk of taking me to the hospital. There were no tears or words from me as my grandmother cleaned me up and put me to bed. I had a small cut on my nose from the constant diamond ring my mother wore. I have the scar to remind myself of the story. The good news, the next morning when I woke up, Snoopy was good as new. He had been washed and dried, and his ear had been reattached to his head. My mother never bought another Flicker and Snoopy and I were free to adventure until that time when all children are expected to grow up.
I stopped taking Snoopy to school in my backpack. Then we moved form California to Texas and Snoopy was put in a box. We moved again and Snoopy was put in a storage unit. Life happened, and the storage unit was lost to lack of funds.
Over the years, I've gotten stuffed animals. I've had lions and tigers and bears, oh my... I had Popples and Cthulhus and Unicorns and NONE of them have ever come close to making me feel a remote attachment to that time as a child.
And then my daughter. My sweet, caring, wonderful daughter... She bought me a Snoopy. I didn't even know how much this small gesture could affect me until I was sitting here writing about it. I'm overwhelmed by the flood of emotion. The complexity of the emotions are unbelievable. She handed it to me and calmly told me, "You haven't had a new Snoopy since you lost him. You need this. You need something until we can get a bigger one."
Life has been rough the last few months. I've always dealt with depression in my own way rather than relying on medication. It comes, it goes, and I can usually handle it with creativity. I make something and I feel better. I dive head first into a new project and the depression will go away. This is the first time in a very long time when I don't have the stuff around me to do that. I don't have the fabric. I don't have the little things I need to even remotely be as creative as I want to be. I have the tools, but I don't have the supplies. So my outlets for my depression are limited at best.
And then my daughter bought me a Snoopy. I think I spent 20 minutes crying while holding that silly Snoopy plush. I feel better and I feel like I have someone that is going to fuel my imagination again. I have something that is going to protect me from my nightmares and help me fight back. All is not lost anymore. I can survive. I can go on. I can and I want to continue.
And all because my daughter bought me a Snoopy...
"The instructions for a pattern are very important. It will tell you which pieces you need and it will give you a general idea of how to put the thing together. Otherwise... It's a bunch of crap that will confuse the hell out of you. If you see something in the instructions that makes NO sense, go with your gut. More than likely it will come out OK, if not... You rip a seam or two."
When I was in the store getting the iron on interfacing, someone suggested I use stitch witchery and I said HELL no. Stitch Witchery is basically it's a liquid that you put on a fabric to keep it from fraying. A very thin clear nail polish. For some things, it works great, but it does have a tendency to discolor the fabric. With as much as I was going to use, I was NOT going to spend more hours painting each seam. Sooo.... Iron on interfacing was my best friend. 
Other things that happen while making this coat. I forgot to take out a pin the sewing needle hit JUST the right spot. I'm keeping it for posterity. 
