One Stitch at a Time
How doll-making with my mom taught me patience is another word for love
The last time I tangled with needle and thread, I made an “easy” sequin kimono for my daughter. She came out looking like a glittery sausage. I came out with my hands high in surrender.
I hate sewing. Loathe it. I can paint, collage, and paper craft my heart out, but when it’s time to secure a loose button or construct a pillowcase — beginner sewing techniques — my head is filled with angry bees.
My mother was an accomplished seamstress. When she was young and couldn’t afford clothes, she made herself smart business jackets and bell bottom pants from thrifted fabric. When she had babies, she made my sister and me rompers and play dresses. When we got older, she made my cosplay costumes and my sister’s wedding dress.
As a child, it was the magic of creation, and I wanted that power. She spent hours showing me how to lay out pattern pieces, work the sewing machine, and rip wayward seams. It was tedious work. The payout left me deflated. I gave up on projects halfway through, but Mom was there to fix my mistakes. She knew the language. Terms like darts, basting, and interfacing didn’t scare her.
I grew up with a lazy daughter’s interest in my mother’s skills, dreams, and accomplishments. She…
