That’s not a lion typing out his frustration on the blog you are reading. No, no, it’s me, sillyliss. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
All my life I have yearned — YEARNED — to do something feminine, housewifely, practical, trendy, grandmotherly, erotic. I’m talking hemming pants. I’m talking mending socks. I’m talking sewing a button back on, or crocheting an afghan.
I’ve tried all of those things and failed at all of them. Except for the afghan, because my attempts at crochet ended with the world’s longest chain of yarn. I think it was tying the slipknot that really threw me.
Then my mother bought me The Magical Hat Loom. It is magical because you can make stuff without knowing a bit about knitting. You just put the thing on the loom and PRESTO CHANGO hat. No counting lines, no fancy patterns. I make hats. And half a scarf.
Okay, I watch a lot of youtube videos and do a lot of unraveling. I don’t like anything I’ve made. You know what I like? Shopping for yarn. There. I said it.
I love my yarn. I love my worsted weight, my bulky, my accidental purchase of embroidery, my baby alpaca, my 39% wool, my Valley Yarns Cold Spring, my cable knit, my Made in Italy, my Peruvian cotton.
Erma wanted to knit. Probably because I make it look so easy? Hah. She was begging me to teach her. She is four. I bought her a Knitting Nancy (the yarn was a bit thick and it never did come out of the bottom) and a small can’t-go-wrong loom. She worked at both these things happily until she was sobbing in frustration. She is four. But she keeps at it, and while I was at work today, she tried to show her father how she knits. It didn’t end well. She is four, did I mention that?
Tonight she told me she REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted to knit. I told her, go ahead; knit your heart out. She said, she needs me to sit by her and help her. I knew how this would end. I sighed, but relented. “Go get your loom and hook out of the yarn box.”
I took a few moments to collect my thoughts. How wonderful to have a daughter who wants to share a hobby with me. We have come a long way since her “I want Daddy; I don’t like you” days.
Five seconds had gone by, maybe less, when Ben calmly told me that there was a situation developing. “The girls have gotten into the yarn,” he said.
I darted toward the bedroom, but it was too late. My beautiful, beautiful, precious, gorgeous, soft, Peruvian, Italian, cotton, wool, alpaca, 6% silk, worsted weight, bulky, fiscal cliff yarn — it. was. everywhere. There was some screaming and the leaving of children from the room. And then I sat amongst the tangles and tried not to sob uncontrollably while I unweaved the superwash from the handwash, the Italian from the Peruvian, the Merino from the Angora.
When it was done, I stared at my neat bundles and felt a pang of anxiety that it was only a matter of time before another epic wreck occurred. How could I prevent an epic wreck?
It’s odd how needlework and crafting is a lot more expensive than just buying off the rack. Is that how the universe is supposed to operate?
Yarn – $
More Yarn – $$
Tote Bag for Yarn – $
Loom(s) – $$
Low Temp Hot Glue Gun – $
Low Temp Glue Sticks – $
Combination Safe for Yarn Storage – $$$$$$$$
ROAR. This hobby is making me stressed out. Maybe I should find something a little more relaxing, like whittling or anger management.