Houston, we have a problem

     Have you ever conceptualized and constructed a rocket and then flown that rocket to the moon?  I trust that no rocket scientists are currently following my blog, so I am assuming that the overwhelming answer here is no.  Now, imagine an actual rocket scientist were to sit you down and tell you, "We are going to be building a rocket today.  Don't worry, I've done this plenty of times.  It's easier than it looks.  I'll be here to guide you every step of the way."  Would you feel suddenly more at ease about the prospect of building  a space bound vessel?  Neither would I.  In fact, many of us, myself included, would likely be on the verge of a panic attack at the thought.  As far as I'm concerned, crafting may as well be rocket assembly.  Many times throughout my life, friends have assured me, "We are going to be making a ___________ (fill in the blank with any of the following : watch band, bracelet, skirt, pair of pajamas, vinyl letter block, duct tape purse) today.  Don't worry, I've done this plenty of times.  It's easier than it looks.  I'll be here to guide you every step of the way."  Two hours later, as I down an Ibuprofen to kill my craft induced headache and my friend scratches her head, mumbling under her breath, as she tries to undo the hopeless mess I have somehow created, I am once again reminded that I don't speak the crafting language.  It may as well be martian.  My one and only crafting masterpiece was created in the first grade, and there remains no tangible proof that it ever existed.  In my elementary school, we had art class every Wednesday.  For weeks, we had been working on making "calico cats."  We were each given a large white piece of construction paper.  On the paper we drew the outline of a cat.  We were then presented with a large wicker basket full of fabric scraps.  We were to choose the scraps we liked the best and glue them to the construction paper cat.  Each Wednesday when we arrived at art class, I was the first at the scrap basket and the last to reluctantly put away my Elmer's glue.  I labored tirelessly, making sure that I used just the right variety of shapes, colors and patterns to cover my cat.  As I finishing touch, I added little button eyes and string whiskers.  The day I was allowed to take my calico cat home, I insisted on holding it on the bus so I could better admire my masterpiece.  I was all aglow as I stepped off the bus with my feline and fabric creation.  My mom would be so proud!  Seconds later, my six year old girl heart sank, as with a loud "pffft", the air from the closing bus door sucked my calico cat from my hands onto the busy street and then ran over it, covering it in black tire marks.  For a split second I thought about running into the road after it. Then I remembered the graphic descriptions my mother had imblazoned into my mind of what would happen to me if ever I ran into the street.  Deciding that I didn't want to become a human pancake covered in blood syrup, I instead decided to run home as fast as I could in the hopes that my mom could help.  I entered our townhouse red faced and so out of breath that I'm sure my mom could barely make out my plea of, " I........lost.......my ........calico cat......the bus came and and the wind and the .........tires, and it was gone........and"  She apparently made out enough of what I was trying to say that she stood up, threw on some shoes, and followed me as I raced madly back to the scene of the trauma.  We walked up and down the sidewalk, keeping our eyes peeled.  My calico cat, my one and only crafting masterpiece had gone the way of road kill.  So ended my brief career of crafting.
     Since that fateful day, I have attempted to "craft" many other things.  As I have mentioned, these ventures typically end in a headache on my part and comments from my crafting partners such as, "I never realized you could tangle a necklace that many times before you were done putting the beads on", or, more tactfully, "Wow, Shannon; what an interesting take on vinyl lettering.  The slightly off centered look makes it feel less fussy.....less planned."  A few weekends ago, I was shopping in a design store with my friend.  I saw an antique map decoupaged onto a piece of old wood.  As I am planning to redecorate my boys' room in a nautical theme next year, I was very interested, until I saw the price tag.  My friend noticed the disappointment on my face as I set the map back in it's place.  "You could just make that at home.  It wouldn't be that hard", she said.  I stared at her incredulously.  "I could help you", she floundered.  I didn't blink.  "I could make it for you and you could pay me."  Bingo!  I am a very creative person.  I can visualize amazing things in my mind.  The execution of actually creating those things is another matter entirely.  That would require a left brain, which I am apparently missing.  Thankfully, I have found that my crafting ineptitude has given me little trouble in my adult life.  I happily pay money for the work of others who are very gifted in that area.  I admire the gorgeous blanket my friend spent two months knitting, then I sit down with a good book and my ten dollar Target throw and am perfectly content.  A few days ago, something happened that would throw my perfectly happy, anti-crafting world off it's axis.  My seven year old daughter entered the kitchen, where I was in the process of putting a frozen pizza in the oven, and announced, "I want to make something......not like drawing a picture.  I want to really make something."  I stood in silence for a few moments as my mind visually scanned the contents of each and every drawer in our house. "Houston, we have a problem."  We had some construction paper, some finger paints and a few sheets of stickers.  Apparently my mental scan had outrun my daughter's patience.  "Well, I'll figure something out", she said, and walked outside.  I didn't know exactly where in our backyard my daughter would come up with crafting supplies.  We had to cut down our hot glue gun tree just last year, and I forgot to water the pipe cleaner bush.  A few minutes later, she returned with a handful of dried leaves.  I watched with wonder as she pulled out a sheet of printer paper and a bottle of Elmer's glue and began sticking the dried leaves onto the paper.
    I made sure her dried leaf printer paper project got a spot front and center on the fridge.  Later that night, I stood there for a long time and stared at my daughter's creation.  For something made out of dead leaves and white paper, it was fairly impressive.  She really does have creative urges.  I decided then and there that it was high time I start helping her nurture her artistic talents and impulses.  I am still baffled by the idea of crafting in general.  But, I suppose there are mom's who attend their son's football games who until the point their son made the team, didn't know what an end zone was. There are parents who attend their daughter's piano recital who think that C position is a yoga stretch.  If my daughter wants to craft, I feel I need to support her.  Tomorrow, I have plans to go shopping for school supplies.  Along with the school supplies, some pipe cleaner, googly eyes, string, and maybe a few macaroni noodles may also find their way into the cart.  I figure I will start small, lest I end up aborting my crafting mission before it begins.  I'm certain that that mothers of most rocket scientists would not understand the inner workings and mechanisms of a rocket.  But maybe, many years ago, they sat holding a small boy wearing rocket jammies in their lap as they read books about outer space.    As parents, we get the distinct pleasure of helping our children discover what they love and supporting them as they reach for dreams that we ourselves may not always understand.  I don't think I will ever be ecstatic about crafts.  I prefer to craft words.  But that won't stop me from being in the check out aisle of the craft store every week if that is what will make my daughter happy.  At this moment, I doubt anyone reading this has the skills necessary to assemble a rocket.  But, if any of us knew that the future happiness of our child depended on our ability to single-handedly complete the next moon landing, I guarantee all of us would be signing up for Rocket Building 101( wouldn't it be awesome if that were actually a class?!).  I just hope that along with all of the glued fingers, tangled fishing wire, head pounding, and occasionally naughty words that may escape her mother's lips during our crafting expeditions, that my daughter will recognize above all else, that she has a mother who is over the moon for her, and who would bring her back the north star in a mason jar, if only she could find where to sign up for that rocket building class.