The cobbler's children

I've made a lot of quilts in my day. I mean, a LOT. They're usually for births and weddings, sometimes for landmark birthdays, occasionally for graduations and get-wells.

So you'd think my daughter would have one. But she doesn't. When my mom once made this observation, I explained that I couldn't do it. Any quilt I made for my daughter would not only have to be perfect; it would have to be an artistic masterpiece. And I just don't feel that my quilting skills meet my own standards. My mom chuckled knowingly and said, "Ah. The cobbler's children go unshod."

Of course I know this is ridiculous. Other people love my quilts, and it's not as if Teagan would closely inspect hers and begin to list its flaws. But this selective perfectionism remains with me a full nine years into her life. My only child sleeps with a store-bought comforter on her bed.

I'm thinking about this right now because my mom has asked my brother and me each to write something to read at Dad's memorial service. Writing: That's what I do. For a living. And it's what I've been doing in this blog for over two months.

But every time I sit down at the keyboard, my hands go cold and clammy and my heart goes into fight-or-flight mode. I am a good writer. But I simply do not know how to sum up this extraordinary man's extraordinary life. Nothing I can write will be good enough.

Nothing.

I just texted my husband about this, saying, "I'm so afraid I'm going to forget to say something really important." Dan wrote back something I found very comforting: "There's nothing to forget."

Guess I'll start typing.