Sew is the Cycle of Life

I called my mom this week to apologize for a childhood memory that recently surfaced. On a mission to escape the rat race, my parents packed up and moved our family from San Diego to the little town of Coquille, Oregon. There, my mom discovered the Coos County Fair, and embraced the thrill of entering crafts for judging. This became the perfect opportunity to teach me to sew. I can't recall what I made for the fair, but I do remember that the sewing became a trend.

As a kid, I learned to make my own clothes & dolls, and I have a faint recollection of making stuffed animals. Anyway, I suppose I appreciated the satisfaction of production, but found the activity tedious. I learned to sew like my dad drives - pretty darn quick, although that topic is for another day, perhaps tomorrow.

Here's a little something I made as a kid, now showing some wear from my 3 year old.

One day (this is the incident that inspired the phone call) I let me feeling be known; I loudly & adamantly stated that I hated sewing and I was done; I would never sew again. Taking my stance with understanding, my mom accepted my demand.

At some point during early adulthood, I realized that home decorating could be much less costly if I made things myself. I decided to make only items that required straight lines, such as duvet covers, pillowcases, and curtains. I would only construct things that didn't require a pattern.

Now, having little girls of my own, I've realized the value of making clothes, although I still refuse to use a pattern. Turns out, I'm grateful for the skill. (Thanks Mom! And, thank you for buying me my sewing machine, even after my anti-sewing stink.)

Here's the irony in the situation: I stayed up late making pants for the girls that I thought were adorable. Annika hates them. This brought another memory flooding back... When I was 12, my mom made me a Daisy Kingdom dress, with bunnies, I think. I was mortified just trying it on, while listening to my mom demand that it WOULD be worn; she had gone to all the trouble, and it was after all, the last little girl dress she would have the opportunity to make for me. I wore it to church, head hanging.

 Here's a dress similar, if not exact.

And here are the pants I recently made for the girls, which Annika tells me she will not be wearing, and suggests that the baby size should be used for her dollies, not for Lydia.

Just as I swore I would never subject my children to the kind of cruelty inflicted upon me, she WILL wear the pants... Hopefully she forgives me someday. Here is a more understated pair that she finds slightly more acceptable.

For Annika's next birthday, I'm planning to buy her the Hello Kitty sewing machine she has been wanting "all her life." I'll teach her to sew, this way she can one day make clothes for her daughter, and will finally understand why I'm forcing her to wear the ruffle pants. What is it about dressing the children you've made in clothes you have constructed with love that is so rewarding?