Mullis: Tying the final knot on the cross-stitch years

My mother taught me how to cross-stitch when I was 10. Pregnant with my sister, she was stitching a baby blanket. I wanted to help, so she marked an old pillowcase with x’s and gave me some spare thread.

When I became pregnant with my first child, I decided to stitch a baby blanket. Pregnancy is a lot of waiting for something to happen. And needlework is something to do while waiting for something to happen.

Stitching that blanket distracted me from dwelling on my swelling ankles or worrying about labor. It gave me a motherly task to complete beyond being a good host body. When that blanket covered my belly, I felt like it was already serving its purpose, which meant I was already serving my purpose.

I finished a few weeks before my oldest was born, which was a good thing. Free evenings and delicate needlework gave way to sleep deprivation and dirty diapers.

Then, I became pregnant with my second child.

I had trouble with this pregnancy and had to go on bed rest. Bed rest for a restless mom with an active toddler is a joke. When she slept, I stitched another baby blanket. It soothed my concern and, more importantly, kept me still.

When my son was born, my needles and threads returned to the closet.

Then, I became pregnant with my last child.

This was a healthy pregnancy, and I had two healthy kids who didn’t believe in naps. Sitting was rare, and you have to sit to stitch. The baby blanket, however, was a tradition.

I sewed whenever I could, usually during Disney movies and after storybooks. As my due date approached, I sewed in my doctor's waiting room while my mother babysat the other children. This amused my doctor and the staff.

Five days before my due date, without a single labor pain to report, my doctor joked the baby was giving me time to finish the blanket. It was funny, but not really. I was ready to get things started.

That night I stayed up sewing, determined to finish, which I did. Shortly after 3:00 a.m.

Feeling awake and uncomfortable, I waddled through the house, eventually stopping at my kids’ bedroom. They were asleep, those blankets I labored over falling off the beds.

I picked them up, noticing where their tiny fingers had plucked out the stitches. I took these first two blankets to the living room, where I laid them next to the final one.

Three children. Three finished blankets.

Three hours later, I was in labor. My doctor was amused.

Although that was my last baby, the blanket wasn’t my last baby project. Whenever one of my sisters or sisters-in-law called with “exciting news,” I would begin a Christmas stocking for the baby. It satisfies my desire to do something besides wait and pray.

Being the oldest of seven children, there is always someone expecting another someone. I carry my needlework with me, stitching during vacations and holidays.

This summer I will finish my 14th baby project, and it might be my last. For the first time in 19 years, no one is expecting or talking about expecting. When I tie the final knot, I will put away my needles and threads.

At least, until the next generation begins.