This is an excerpt from the non-fiction, religious book I’m currently working on, Honor the Mothers. It’s part memoir, part exploration of the things we class as “women’s work” and the magic within them.
Mending is boring as hell.
Ok, not that boring. I just hate it.
No, hate is a strong word.
I used to mend all the time and I never minded it then. But it was small projects, and once in a while. I darned my socks frequently because I grew up poor and often couldn’t afford new ones. So I darned the old ones and kept wearing them…for decades sometimes. I mended my other clothing too. It made sense, and it kept me from constantly having to buy new clothes.
So I never used to mind mending, until I sat down to do a month of it.
The month is long over and I still have a massive pile to conquer. I couldn’t get through even a fraction of it in a month. I managed to stay on top of my husband’s mending but didn’t get to many older projects that have sat there for so long. Except my purse — I managed to fix that, which made me happy. It’s a big green war bag that has a sort of masculine toughness to it, but with a big, glitzy, bling-y clasp. I like …