Warning: The sentimental ramblings of a sleep deprived mother lie ahead. (I'm not joking, sleep deprivation is not pretty. I cried about eggs this morning) The knitting content follows. Scroll down if you hate this stuff.
Yesterday, my charming and accomplished daughter Amanda celebrated her 15th birthday. She had cake, and presents and the adoring throngs. Or I think she did, I was at a birth. I am beside myself about missing her birthday, but if it is any consolation to her...I thought about her all day.
As my client M. became a mother, I remembered becoming a mother myself. I remember being so tired, and so happy...and so completely freaking terrified that it's a wonder I was capable of being anything at all. My client had a baby boy, and I told her about nursing, diapers, crying (hers and his) and swaddling.
When M. had a little cry over it all, I almost told her this is only the beginning, she is going to cry about colic, and diaper rash and first smiles and big messes. That she will dissolve over laundry, and dinner and why toddlers only eat yellow beans and toast fingers for weeks at at time. She will weep for lost teeth, the first day of school, chicken pox and that kid who isn't nice. There will be rivers wept for walking alone to school, getting phone calls from boys, failing math and the first time this kid says "No thanks Mom, I don't need any help".
I told M. that now she was a mother. That now things would be different.
I didn't tell her:
That now...now everything she ever thought she cared about, her job, her garden, her knitting? All that is nothing.
That the whole world just shrunk down to the size of about seven pounds, fifteen ounces.
That this is going to be so hard.
That Motherhood is the end of quitting when it isn't fun.
That there are no words for how much you will love this person.
That someday...oh someday so soon, this tiny baby with the damp curls will be the most incredible almost grown up person...
Happy birthday Manda.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled knitting blog...
When last we saw our adventurous Harlot, she was boarding the subway to journey downtown and meet Laurie (of the comments) who was visiting from Maine.
I adore her. We had an awesome lunch and embarked on a yarn crawl. There was much shopping, and talking and the exchange of gifts. (I totally scored here...I'm not even going to show you everything that Laurie gave me. I'm afraid that the envy would corrupt you all if I don't pace it.) For today we will only admire the extremely cool sock yarn that Laurie dyes and spins.
Pretty yarn...yes? HA! You like it already and you don't even know what it does. Note: I am not at all ashamed to admit that I got home from meeting Laurie and within about..say, 9 seconds, had cast on this sock. Tank? Dublin Bay socks? What was that? Cast aside like rags, and you know what? Didn't even flinch. Not a second thought, not a moment of regret. I don't even hear their little woolly voices calling out to me.
(You can't see me...but I am dancing. I am wearing a ratty orange tee-shirt, plaid pants and that sock) I love it. Love, love, love. Laurie dyes the the roving, then spins it up, (Her spinning is perfection by the way. So perfect that if you hadn't had lunch with her and found out that she is so nice that you couldn't hate her for it, you probably would) then she navajo plies it so that she can have a three ply without disturbing the colours.
Laurie explained all of this to me, and as a spinner I understand what she's telling me, I mean, I speak English...I heard the words, I understand the concepts individually but somehow, doesn't this yarn seem like only a very cool magic trick could conjure it up?
There are so many variables that I just don't get. How much roving? When to change colours? I'd think that Laurie just got lucky but she was wearing a pair in another colourway, so she's pulled this off at least twice.
With my wool as my witness, I will learn how to make this.Posted by Stephanie at May 31, 2004 12:06 PM