My mom is a crafter and so is my sister. They will happily noodle around with their … um, crafting … stuff or whatever you call the cart of supplies you bring home from Hobby Lobby. They make cute and adorable things with their bare hands. They intuitively understand the rule of odd numbers and off-center things make it all look better. Sometimes I wish I was like that. And oh boy, sometimes I wish Finn was like that. What I wouldn’t give for a child that would just color on some paper for more than 45 seconds.
When I was little, my mom made money selling her crafts to stores around the state. Imagine etsy, except she had to drive all her stuff over to a lady’s house in May before the store in Duluth opened for the summer. We would come home from school to find her painting wooden creatures and stands. The countertops would be tatooed with little bits of leftover paint while this one dried or that one got another coat. Every Christmas, I display one of her wooden Santas.
Sometimes I wish I could understand it. I understand the compulsion to create. I even like the idea of making ornaments and flower pots and mobiles. The stuff I do not understand is the crafts that have been created just to be. They are all over pinterest and I often stare at them and think, ok, you make that and then you do what with it? Stare at it?