This quilt block (Contrary Wife) very nearly escaped being made. After the last block, I had enough patchwork pieces to make up your Dear Daughter quilt. Albeit, as a square, but a chance to finish the quilt. Hooray, I thought. Then I remembered a letter I wanted to include, which meant another block had to be made.
My square quilt no longer worked, with this plus one. I need to sew more blocks to make the quilt into a rectangle shape. Six more required after this one. It would have been even more if I’d wanted to make it square again.
The upside is that I can choose more patterns to include in your quilt. Play with more combinations of fabric. Maybe dig out a few bits of advice to share, in the form of letters, which brings me nicely onto the subject of this latest Dear Daughter letter.
(Contrary Wife quilt block no 21 and harp tuning key)
I’ve told you this story many times. You even join in on the punch line, but it seems amiss to not include it as one of my Dear Daughter letters. It is a lesson I learnt too late. If I could send a letter to my younger self, this is the one I would choose. Without a doubt.
I’ll start at the beginning. In secondary school, at the stage they now call KS3, I found school work relatively easy. With a little bit of work, I could get good marks. I’d be one of those students that everyone automatically assumed would be in the group, getting the top test scores, each time. It was great. I liked it. It opened doors to other learning opportunities. I was in top sets. Before long, this meant that the work I was set was challenging and that was spot on for keeping me interested and focused.
There was, however, one fly in the ointment. I could never reach the accolade of first. Leader boards were posted up on classroom walls, telling us who came first, second, third, etc. Awful when I think back to it. I don’t want to think about the long term effect of these lists on the students that tussled for last place each time.
In reality, it really didn’t matter if it was posted up on the wall or not. We all compared scores and places among ourselves. We all knew who was doing better than us or who we were beating. I know it’s the same for you. You tell me who did better than you. Sometimes adding an “of course, X got a higher score than me”.
I’m jumping ahead. In my story, the fly in the ointment was one particular person. We’ll call him D. I could never beat him. It got to a stage when even fellow classmates were aware and would joke as test marks were handed out. I didn’t always come second. There were a group of us that jostled around to get the top positions, but none of us broke through to the top spot. There may have been the odd occassion, but there was always a good reason, such as D hadn’t taken the test, which would mean I still hadn’t beaten him.
I was competitive. I wanted to beat him.
To such an extent that my actual score became unimportant. What was the point of getting 89%, let’s say in the test, if I only ranked 2nd or 3rd? Getting the first position was all that mattered. Now this is not a good mindset, to say the least. It is unsustainable. To run a race everytime for first place and, at best, achieve second each time, eventually something had to give in my young mind. It took me years, but eventually I gave up. I stopped caring. I was never going to win. I was beat. I no longer cared if I did well.
I dropped. Not to the bottom, but I left that top group, scrabbling for first place. It was easier and less pressured. I did enough to stay off the radar. I wish someone had noticed. Given me a guiding hand. Instead I just cruised along. Distracted by other aspects of being a teenager. Not entirely happy. Not achieving my full potential.
It wasn’t until years later, as I flicked through a magazine, that I realised that I had been running the wrong race all those years ago. How did I not realise? This is the message I would love to go back and tell my former self. Oh, for a time machine. Who knows what I’d be doing if only I had known. Maybe I’d be inventing the time machine. One thing I’m pretty sure about is that I would have been happier at school.
So as I flicked through that magazine, a photo caught my eye. It was of D. Older now and smiling out of the pages. Face tanned. He had his arm round a girlfriend. Judging by the background and their clothes, they were on holiday. Maybe in the far east. Wherever it was, it was hot. He had chosen to send in a holiday snap to our school Alumni magazine. I was curious. Of course I was. Here was the person that I could never beat. What had he done with all
my that success?
He was now a surgeon.
At that moment, the great, big, proverbial penny dropped. Oh my goodness. Why had I not realised? I had been running a race against a future surgeon. What was I thinking? Why did no one tell me? Of course, no one could have told me the future, but if I had known, I would never have tried. I had been running the wrong race, and the funny thing was that the race track I was on, I had been the winner. I had been winning all the time.
You see, I came top in the race of future programmers, my future career. All that time, my eyes had been on the wrong race track. I didn’t know it, but that was the one for the future medic. I was me. Not him. There was only one person on my particular race track that I had to beat, and that was me. I shouldn’t have been comparing myself to anyone else but me.
If I was to go back in time, I would give one piece of advise. Beat your own personal best. That’s it. It’s OK to see how others are doing. Not to wish to beat them necessarily. More to spur yourself on in your study and keep you on the right track. Check you are putting everything of yourself into doing your best. If they are beating their own scores by studying in a certain way, maybe you should try that too.
I wish I had known.
I wish I had tackled every test or homework with the attitude that I wanted to get a better score than my last one. I wish the league table on the classroom wall had shown how I was beating my personal best rather than showing I had beaten so many other people in my class. It could have been a graph, where I would have willed it to get higher as the line went from left to right. That should have been my race. To beat my personal best.
Yes, there are exams approaching. You have a year until you sit your GCSEs. Yes, your score will be compared with others. Thousands and thousands of others. Most of those people, you will never know. They may have all sorts of advantages that give them a better chance. It will be the one and only time you will run a race against them. How do you prepare for that? How do you prepare for a test against future surgeons/astro-physists/aero-engineers/professors and goodness only knows who else?
You don’t. You can’t and you shouldn’t. That would be the wrong race. You need to beat your personal best on the day. You need to beat your personal best on all the tests and homeworks running up to that ultimate exam, so that when you take the exam, you are doing your best. To reach your full potential. Reach for your sky.
Like they say, if you look after the pennies, the pounds will look after themselves.
If you take care of your personal bests, then the grades will look after themselves.
I hope D is doing well. He was a nice person. It would be good to know that he has become top of his profession. If for nothing else, and partly because it is such an ingrained attitude, I find myself thinking that it wasn’t so bad to come second to a future, first class surgeon, all those years ago. Turns out I wasn’t in the same race.
Hindsight. Would be a wonderful thing.
Your loving mother
This is part of my Dear Daughter quilt project. One quilt block. One letter. For my eldest daughter. To see more blocks, and letters, and the background to the project click here.
Another quilt block and letter for your Dear Daughter quilt. I’ve had this one sewn up and ready for awhile, but mislaid it. Along with all the other finished blocks. I turned my craft room upside down looking for it. Finally found the pack between two cookery books. Not my best filing decision.
I’m not the most organized person, as I’m sure you know. More spontaneous. I have moments of pure whirlwind efficiency, which keeps everything ticking along fairly smoothly, but most of the time I tend towards chaos. Organized chaos, as I can usually find whatever is needed. It’s not something I rattle on about on-line, partly as I don’t think people would turn up to read about it.
Far better to write about finished dressmaking projects, rather than the mound of washing that has so far been ignored. Take photos of the places we’ve been, than the areas of the garden yet to be weeded. The dust bunnies multiplying under the table. Seriously, does anyone want to read about the more disorganized side of my reality? Do they really need to be burdened by a photo of my quilt blocks hiding between Mary Berry and Nigella? More to the point, do I want to write and take the photos of it? Heck. No.
This is really the subject of my letter to you. Not everything on-line tells the whole story.
Each photo you see, has probably been selected as the best of the rest. Altered and enhanced to show its subject off at its best. After all ,why would anyone publish a bad photo unless it was to prove a point?
The subject of the photo will have been arranged to perfection. Props added to show it off at its best, and cover up boring bits they don’t want you to see. Even a quick photo snapped will have been cropped to cut out something in the background that may distract or not add to the subject.
In short, photos are censored by those that publish them.
(I’ve pointed the camera at the pretty cakes and not the mountain of baking utensils waiting to be washed, that we all know are lurking just out of the frame)
Recently you have shown me photos on Instagram of people you used to go to school with. Some you haven’t seen for two or three years. They look different, and I’m not talking about being 3 years older. They are unrecognizable to me. (I’m beginning to think that the latest fashion of bigger, drawn in eyebrows is a far better disguise than any false moustache.)
The girls staring back out at us, look amazing. They have perfect makeup, hair styled and dyed, and suck their cheeks in, until they no longer resemble the person you knew. They look older than their age. They look confident. They look like they know what they are doing.
Now, as these are the only images you have seen of them recently, it gives the impression that this is how they look all the time. (Although, you and I both know that cheek thing would be impossible to keep up for too long.) It is quite undermining to think your peers have got it sorted and you are left behind. After all, you don’t look anything like that. (Thank goodness, I like your eyebrows the way they are)
(Clematis not from my garden, but the photo added here could give the impression that this is how my garden looks.)
The truth is that they don’t either. More than likely. First up, before they took that photo, they spent ages applying makeup, fiddling with their hair and practising the pout in front of the mirror. Maybe hours. They will have taken several photos and chosen the best to hit the publish button on.
Most would not have time to do this whole rigmarole before school each day. Also checking a mirror every few minutes to ensure the perfect pout, would soon get them a name. I’d bet that they don’t ooze confidence all the time. They will all have their worries that give them anxious moments. The photos hide a lot.
If you could roll back to a few hours before they took the photo, you’d probably find them examining the latest spot on their face and their hair would be scraped back in a Minnie Mouse hairband, that they’ve had since their Aunt brought it back from Disney World, when they were 8. Maybe the makeup session was displacement behaviour, in an attempt to ignore the french verbs that are still in their bag waiting to be memorized for the next day’s test. Maybe they chose that look, as they’d seen another friend’s photo on-line and that’s how they looked.
Maybe they are pretty much just like you. (Except the Minnie Mouse part. Not part of your collection.)
So my message to you is, that a photo may be worth a thousand words, but those words may not be the ones you see at first glance.
Your loving Mother
This is part of my Dear Daughter quilt project. One letter for each quilt block. Until a whole quilt is completed. This is my 21st block. You can view all the finished quilt blocks, and their letters, via my Dear Daughter page.
I realised today that my pile of quilt blocks for your Dear Daughter quilt is growing, while the number of letters is not keeping up. I have four newly finished blocks, and another almost sewn up, with no letters of their own. Hmm. Time to write another letter.
This quilt block is called “Flock”. It has an interesting effect that I wasn’t expecting. It shows up better from a distance and may not work as well in the photos.
As if by magic, the reds and greens almost seem to hover above the musical instrument print. I think the solid red and greens combine well, but the gold and white images trick the eye into thinking it’s a separate layer, further away. Like looking down on a flock of birds flying over a landscape, which is far down below. I’m sure that this block is meant to have the effect, but it only shows ups when you actually make it.
As I sorted the washing this morning, I mulled over the effect. I wish I had used smaller print for the lighter fabric to make it more distant.
Then I was distracted. I noticed yet again that you have less school socks than your siblings. This is not possible. I seem to buy socks for you all, every month or two. Yet they have many and you don’t.
Now I admit, that your sister and brother do wear grey socks and you wear black, so maybe they are combining like the red and green in my patchwork to seem like a separate grouping. The magical effect of making your socks seem less in number. Unfortunately, the evidence is against this theory. I have, rather sadly, thought this through.
So I’ve braved your room and checked everywhere:
⇒ under your bed and drawers (found two non-matching black socks)
⇒ in the wrong drawer (nope, although I did find a blouse that needed hanging up)
⇒ bottom of the laundry basket (one scrunched up sock – doesn’t match the other two)
⇒ in the corners of all the clean duvet covers – a favourite place for your toddler socks to hide. (nope, but I did find a green sock. Too small now)
⇒ in everyone else’s drawers (nope, nope, nope)
I did check the textile recycling box, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the house who knows where this can be found. (nope)
So. Apart from three odd black socks, not a lot of progress. I can only conclude that the rest are not in the house, which makes me wonder what happened to them all. Have they become a strange protection money alternative at school? Do you trade socks for an easy time at school?
Maybe you and your friends use socks to block draughty holes in the classrooms. Does it make the Maths room less chilly? Or will I find a cache of them in your PE bag, like another member of the family seems to specialise in?
Have they gone to the same place as all the missing biros and sharp pencils? Is there a black hole in your room that only attracts black school socks? Maybe its sponsored by the sock manufacturers.
I’m sure I’m not the only mother to have this problem. Sigh.
Alas, I’m afraid that this will remain a mystery. I’ll be putting more school socks on my shopping list for you. Again.
Your loving mother
P.S. I hope you appreciate that I chose to partner a letter about socks, with a quilt block called “Flock”. Flock/Sock.
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For more of the Dear Daughter letters and quilt blocks, check the menu at the top.