My life is, admittedly, detached from the effort it takes to make the clothing I wear. I wonder about it, but not as often as I could. Who made this skirt? How much did that person get paid? Probably not enough What happened to the fabric scraps? How long did it take to create my favorite jacket or that well-loved shirt? What should these items have cost me?
When I was a girl, I remember my mother sewing outfits for me. At that age, I didn’t fully appreciate the time and talent she put into those clothes. They weren’t fancy, but neither was I. The clothes she sewed for my sister and me were simple, well-constructed, and made by loving hands. When sewing, she would call me to pause my playtime and have the items fitted. It was a familiar part of the process. I remember delicately sliding on the half-sewn garments to avoid sticking myself with the many pins holding the seams together. Then, after my mom inspected her handiwork, I’d hand the garment over to her and bounce away to finish whatever activity I was in the middle of. After a good span of time, I had cute new clothes to wear and I felt so proud that my mom had made them. I even remember her making matching headbands one time, which I thought was pretty special.