I continue working on the skirt portion of the uniform, attempting to live up to the pattern. It was crisp and natty appearing in the photos. It seemed like a distant reach, with all the tapering seams and my unpolished sewing skills. As I pushed the fabric through the feeder, the hum of the machine lulled my mind into deep thoughts despite the other noises in the room. Not paying attention, my finger slipped beneath the needle. The puncture was fast, but painful. Taking a momentary break, I must decrease my distractions.
Creating a brassy clang, she beats on the pots and pans like drums with wooden spoons. I tenderly pick up my daughter out of the floor and remove the spoons from her hands. Nap time, I say to her, as I lay her down in her crib. I turn the soothing music on in her room, volume turned down low.
Back to work, though the deadline seems distant, time has a way of passing by quickly. The costume is for a play highlighting historical women figures, and my oldest daughter is to play Florence Nightingale. She was the paragon of modern nursing development. That my daughter, who just last year had imaginary friends, chose such an astounding figure to represent means the world to me. I am going to triumph over this project.
After days of sewing, measuring, ironing… I’m almost ready for the revelation of a beautiful costume.