My mother was an amazing seamstress. It was never a profession, nor did she take any classes to learn the craft. She watched her aunt sew, learned how to carefully cut patterns, and had an eye for detail. In fact, people compliment me on a skirt I may be wearing or something else she had made and stare at me in shock when I tell them that my mother made that garment. She made all of The Boy’s crib bedding plus two quilts for him, and if she was still alive, he would probably have an entire wardrobe of things she’d made, much like my nieces did when they were his age.
It’s really hard now to look at things that are homemade and have the same kind of appreciation for them that others have when you’ve grown up with this level of, well, perfection. I mean, when I picked out fabric for a plaid miniskirt that I wanted her to make for me, she carefully studied it before cutting it so that the tartan lined up exactly right. I remember, as a little girl, watching her painstakingly iron tiny pleats on what would eventually be a skirt for either my sister or me. (She often dressed us identically.)
Big Sis E called me this afternoon to chat about myriad things, and I shared with her my disdain at the job I did of hemming The Boy’s pants at the beginning of August. Oh, sure, they look nice and the hems are even and straight, but the stitches aren’t even. Never mind that I’m probably going to take out the stitches at the beginning of January and re-hem the pants. Never mind that the stitching is on the inside and no one will see it. As far as I’m concerned, the job is still sub-par.
But when “par” is a hole-in-one, anything less than perfection doesn’t exactly measure up.
I wonder if The Boy will feel the same way when he looks at handmade greeting cards when he gets older….