I just talked to you, and while you claim to have felt nothing last night at 11pm, and are apparently still pregnant, I just want to show you something.
That’s right. At 11pm last night I cast off the last little bit of the edging on the behemoth baby blanket, and this morning while I drank my coffee, this beast went for a swim in the tub. (Yes, by the way, that bit that got dragged along the bottom of the boat at the cottage came perfectly clean, and the beer that Erin spilled on it washed right out too.)
It is now blocking on our queen sized bed, which should give you a sense of the size of the thing – which while glorious, is both unintentional and no indication of the size of child I think you are going to produce.
I know when I give you this (and you’re not getting it until you’re ready for a trade. I get a baby to hold, and you get a blanket) you’re going to say thank you.
Don’t bother. I didn’t make it for you. It is for whatever wonderful person you’ve been making, and I hope it travels with them for a long, long time. Long through cuddles, long past naps, well into journeys away from home. It should be big enough to cover a crappy bed at University, sturdy enough to make it to a lousy first apartment, and if you teach this being how to take care of woollies, it might even someday wrap a whole other person that this person makes for you.
It also strikes me (along with the shocking realization that I could be a knitter for 39 years and still not be able to predict the size of a blanket if it’s on a circular needle) that this blanket reminds me of you, and your little family, and all that’s happened between us for the last six or seven years…
It’s a lot more than I had ever hoped for. I bet the baby is the same.
(PS. Your move. Fire when ready, and not a minute before.)