I’m embarrassed by my embroidery—and that’s why my children’s names are missing from my family’s 100-year-old christening gown

At the back of my closet is a christening gown—a 100-year-old family heirloom first used to baptize my grandfather. His name was embroidered on it, then his children’s, grandchildren’s, and eventually some of his great-grandchildren’s names.

The story ends at the part where my children’s names should have appeared on the gown. It’s not that I didn’t have any children—I contributed more than the average Finn to the birth rate (I have three sons). The gown is still waiting for someone to pick up a needle.

Although I’m a knitting professional, I’ve never embroidered on thin fabric. And if you think about the times I’ve sewn a button on a cardigan and wrestled with leftover yarn ends, you’ll get why embroidery hasn’t topped my to-do list.

I’m also a bit embarrassed about this all. Why haven’t I done it yet? What would my grandmother—a former master embroiderer—and her mother—the matriarch of all embroiderers—think? They’re probably rolling in their graves as I write this.

Then again, what could be more fitting for the family story embroidered into this gown than a little inconsistency? Life is rarely stitched to perfection. It’s full of unfinished projects, crooked seams, and slightly distorted letters.

Maybe one day I’ll pick up a needle—perhaps for my grandchildren, if I’m lucky enough to have them. Or maybe I’ll write a note and slip it into the garment bag: “There should’ve been a name here, but Mom got lost in her yarn.”