Several weeks ago, B placed a pair of shorts on my desk and asked if I could replace a button—the same button I’ve replaced several times by the looks of the knot of thread across from the waistband buttonhole.
    “The button broke, again.” He said. It was his favorite pair of shorts and each time I replaced the button, I scavenged a button from somewhere else on the shorts—side cargo pockets, back pockets, extra buttons hidden on the inside of the hem. Each time, after a few wears, the four-holed button breaks in half.
    This morning, I saw that pair of shorts still sitting on my desk, buttonless and quite unwearable, and I decided to fix them. I thought I had a button box in my sewing basket, but he only buttons I found was a package of three large, black coat buttons.
    “Do you mind a black button?” I called out to B, holding up his tan shorts.
    “I don’t care if it’s pink as long I can button the pants so they stay up!” He called back, excited that his shorts would be repaired and returned.
    I sat back at my desk, with needle and black thread, and began to attach the button. Ren watched with fascination.
    “What are you doing, momma?”
    “I am sewing a button on daddy’s shorts,” I replied as I poked the needle through the fabric and pulled through the thread.
    ‘You sew? YOU SEW?” He exclaimed.
    I giggled, “Yes, I sew.”
    “I had no idea that you were the kind of mother that sews! That’s so cool!” Then he ran in
Ashlyn’s room yelling, “Sissy, sissy, momma sews, our mom sews!”
    And I thought that only B would be excited that I was sewing.