I hate sewing. I hate it.
In my final two years of secondary school back on Portland (ages 15 and 16, for those not in the UK), I quite food tech and took textiles instead. It was the start of my interest in the subject but I new almost immediately that I would rather staple my own hand to a table rather than sewing the dress I was making; I never finished the dress, leaving it unlined and unwearable. I passed, but only barely.
Unfortunately by this point my Dad had already purchased a very fancy sewing machine which I proceeded to never use and gave to my friend after ten years of neglect (I hope you’re enjoying it, Soph).
I can just about manage to sew up a hole in my clothes, though it’s functional rather than neat. I can sew on a button though I have to sit and concentrate with furrowed brow and if anyone talks to me while I do it, I inevitably stab myself in the finger. I hate sewing. I hate it.
So of course I pick a project that involves sewing the arms onto the cardigan.
I’m halfway through the first sleeve and keep eyeing the cardigan with nervous anticipation because I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I’ve never sewn in sleeves. I’ve always done raglan shaping, because at worst that means a few stitches in the underarm (which can usually be fudged with some crochet). This, though… this looks complicated. This looks like lining things up and making things neat and I don’t want to do it.
Luckily for Mr. Tommy, the new nephew (I typed ‘newphew’ which is accurate but incorrect), he has super chubby cheeks and I would do anything for his small blobbiness that I’ve never met, which is interesting to me as the least maternal person in the world. That means I’m going to sew in the sleeves as soon as they’re done, teeth a-gnashing.
Tommy, you’re lucky you’re cute. You better appreciate this.