Wincey – but really – wincey, a baby word from a nursery rhyme is what was doled out by the metre.
You could make a layette girls because who would know when you might need it? Strange shapes and sizes dolly small or too big for some monstrously headed imagined baby who would divide heaven from earth and wreck your cunt. The thought that you might really pop one out was perhaps too horrific to transfer to tracing paper.
Portion control is what it was. Getting ready to get ripped off in all sorts of ways. It was practiced in Home Ec too. Measly sizes from magazine recipes: toad-in-the-hole and egg-in-the-nest. Only once when the history teacher invaded the kitchen did we get the taste of something else. Don’t grate the carrots leave the skins on they’re good for you. He was curly haired and gap toothed with the bones of a child.
The one girl in the class who made real things had hands that ran uncontrollably with sweat and when some other girl got extolled for her work (exquisite, just exquisite) we lost it together
behind the poke-hole frames of our machines husqvarnas on one side and berninas on the other – all the man-made borders of that class – we were banished from Switzerland/Sweden to the barren quadrangle where we were still sat on opposite sides holding flat bellies, the laughter pain in them sharp little heralds of what we might birth later and clothe in everything but wincey.