Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Ah, February, how you wear me out. I've been chasing sunshine for weeks now. There! A ray of light in a corner, let me go huddle in it like a cat. Until this past weekend, we've had rain, with a few days of drizzle, and one lucky break of fog. When the rain stopped briefly, we set out on foot two days in a row! It was thrilling... wet, muddy, and cold, but thrilling. I'll take it.
In an effort to clean out my stash closet, I wound some bright yellow wool into pretty little finch colored cakes and cast on for a baby cardigan. About an hour into knitting, my son, with all the tact a 7 year old can muster, stated, "That is so bright I am blind." I pretended to be dismayed. When my husband informed the baby I was making her a raincoat, I did my best to pout and look wounded as I pulled the needles out and unraveled the whole collar.
I wasn't really upset. I had been questioning the choice of wool with each stitch, but championed on because that is what I do nowadays. Listen, I'm forty with a six week old. I haven't slept soundly in at least 10 months, my pregnancy brain has slipped into what google search informs me is early onset dementia, and my body, well, I avoid mirrors from the neck down. When I do catch a glimpse of my changing self, I get pretty damn sad. I know it takes time. I know, because I've done this twice before, but when you feel you've lost control of everything, normal proportion and perspective go out together on a long holiday. Funny how we forget what it is really like to have a baby. Mother Nature is clever that way.
I cast on again in a pretty blue wool. Rather than doubting myself with each stitch, I am intentionally reminding myself nothing remains static, to let go of the way things were going to be and look forward to the way life will be. I intend to find joy in the little moments while the big issues reign themselves back in. For instance, I am happy to have a family who practice honesty, or else I could have suffered terrible regret many years from now upon hearing my daughter proclaim, "I can't believe you dressed me in a hand knit raincoat. I must have blinded people."
Or, I could knit them all yellow raincoats, sing a round of you are my sunshine, and blame it on the dementia. Sounds like a plan.