I have to confess to an embarrassing weakness. I do my best to hide it. 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.
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 (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 near anything you care about with a hot iron in my hand, because at best, I will ADD wrinkles. I’m a comedy sketch of errors when I’m forced to iron, and that’s with great big people clothes.
What am I supposed to do now, with teensy-weensy Hattie clothes?
Nobody makes appropriately sized implements for this kind of pressing. And in the unlikely event that Iād want to use my finger as an ironing board, I can’t even fit my pinky into the sleeves of her chemisette.
I’ve had to make do with the usual tools. And though the final effort isn’t bad, the tucks look less even than they really are and I squashed the tiny gathers at the bottoms of the sleeves. I feel like Hattie deserves better. But I’m learning to accept my limits.
One hot iron at a time.
Sort of . . .
To watch Hattie’s wardrobe grow, click HERE.
To read about just her plaid trimmed jumper project, click HERE.