The Christening Gown

On my first trip to England in 1994, just days after the birth of my first niece, my itinerary included finding an antique christening gown. Every antique gown I saw was tiny, tiny, and I finally concluded the normal-size gowns had been picked over until all that remained were gowns for teensy babies. Not until I came home empty-handed and began heirloom sewing several years later did I learn why I'd had no luck. Victorian infant mortality was very common. Since there was a real chance a baby might not live long, baptisms took place as soon after birth as possible, often within days. Hence the small gowns.

Now, my clan rarely gets it together before our babies are a year old, so we need large, i.e. new, gowns. Mother visited England just a couple of weeks after my trip, and she returned triumphant, with christening gown firmly in hand. I was surprised at her choice—not what I would have picked—but she was proud of her trophy. It's a good striped batiste, but no rare and dainty lace, nothing I would call heirloom quality. However, it was purchased at Harrods, my shopaholic mother's Mecca of consumerism, and she relives the shopping expedition with each christening. So far there have been three, my two nieces and my darling granddaughter.

When my granddaughter's turn came, I wondered how I could make an heirloom out of this commercially-made dress. I struck on the idea of hand-embroidering each baby's name and the date of christening on the skirt of the dress in white, using a different style for each. I undertook the work myself, knowing that if left to my mother, she'd have it all machine-embroidered at some alterations shop.

In the fever of first enthusiasm, I finished both nieces' names quickly, then spent too much time trying to make Ella's "special," which only caused me to do and re-do until I ran out of steam. The dress has been balled up in my embroidery hamper for two years, and the impending birth of another baby finally propelled me to finish the job. As I showed the finished product to my mother and my daughter (the expectant mother), I said, "It's been done right and I leave it to some future Philestine to ruin it with machine embroidery!" I see my mistakes, but I like the way it turned out and I envision a whole skirt full of names and dates some day.

I suggested to my mother and daughter that we remove the ribbons for the boy who will wear it next, replacing them with satin buttons or such. I was met with gasped protestations from both generations, which purely delights me. In the South we love putting our children in handmade clothing and little boys wear smocked items "until their daddies won't let 'em any more." Fortunately this baby's father is secure in his masculinity and we womenfolk will be allowed to dress Baby in ribbons and lace for a few months, at least, and smocked John-Johns for a couple of years. The cammo (ugh!) and denim can wait a while, surely.