I have to confess to an embarrassing weakness. I do my best to hide it most of the time. I have my private “accommodations”. But sewing for such a tiny doll has tested the limits of my creativity and it’s time to come clean, publicly.
I can’t iron.
I don’t mean “can’t” as in, it takes me longer than most people (which it does) or that I scorch things (yep) or frequently burn myself with the iron (yikes, yes). When I say I can’t iron what I mean is this: you don’t want me to. You don’t want me, and anything you care about, near an ironing implement of any kind.
Ironing to me is the thing you do when you want something to have more wrinkles afterward than before you started.
It’s the activity I do when I’m in the mood to make up new swear words.
This is bad enough when we’re talking about people clothes. But now, I have to figure out how to iron the tiniest little things. And there is no iron or implement to make this plausible. Take Hattie’s itty bitty chemisette for example. In the unlikely event that I’d want to use my finger as an ironing board, I can’t even fit my pinky finger into those sleeves.
The final effort isn’t bad. But it’s not perfect. I feel like Hattie deserves better. But I’m learning to accept my limits.
Sort of.
To watch Hattie’s wardrobe grow, click HERE.
To read about just her plaid trimmed jumper project, click HERE.