Devonne Brown

Santa brought me a baby doll for Christmas one year that had white curly hair like an old lady. She had a rubber head and blue eyes that would open and close when she sat up and lay down. Her arms and legs were rubber too, attached to a stuffed body. She was about half the size of a chicken in the grocery aisle. I called her my soft baby doll. 

The night Mom got kidney stones, I had to go stay with Mrs. Dent the neighbor. To distract me, she taught me how to make a dress for the doll. It was a purple and white flowered ensemble, trimmed with lace. The more complicated the better. The busier it kept me. For a five year old, my hands were an easy way to occupy my mind. 

I wanted to make that dress with lace trim. It took hours to stitch it up properly. I even put two snaps on the back aligned just right. She showed me how to turn the seams under so the fabric wouldn’t fray. Looking back now, she may have just been taking advantage of my willingness to please her and keep me busy for hours on end, which she did. She took my mind off of Mom.

Nonetheless, I constructed a perfect hand stitched purple and white floral french seamed babydoll dress with lace on the collar, around the sleeves, and hem. I was five years old. 

The babydoll and I were inseparable. I also used it as a reminder that I could make clothes for any other dolls. I made Barbie doll clothes for every Barbie my sister and I had using scraps of Mom’s sewing. My soft baby doll and Mrs. Dent taught me to sew.