Blame the Yarn!
When was the last time you completely ignored someone who was asking you a question because you were counting stitches?
Or totally lost focus on something that you, or someone else, was saying by the distraction of seeing a handknit piece?
How about this - without asking, you immediately touch someone’s clothing because you recognized it as a fancy mohair or recycled cashmere?
It’s not rude, friends. It’s yarn.
There have been many times in my life where I blame the yarn for my short-comings. Tired during the day because I stayed up too late - The yarn’s fault. Didn’t get my emails done - That pattern needed to be worked. Forgot to put the chicken in the oven and needed to order take-out - The yarn made me do it.
In all seriousness, that string of fiber has become a special thing to us, Knitters.
When I was born, my Great Grandma Lily - an expert knitter and crocheter - made me a baby blanket. It was white with squares of animals on it, and had a sturdy lace foundation. I loved that blanket from before I can remember it. At some point I named it “Hottie” and my Mom told me that almost immediately after receiving the blanket, I started putting my fingers into the eyelets. I would push my little fingers through those holes and crunch up my hands, almost kneading the fabric like bread. As I got older, this kneading moved to my toes, and pretty soon all my digits were tangled up in yarn, and I was literally wrapped in the cozy love of this blanket.
The joys of storytelling allow for the fast-forward nature of skipping to the chase - I ruined that blanket. It became a mess of yarn - ripped, broken, stretched, and oh-so-completely loved.
My sister is 7 years younger than I, and when she was born, Great Grandma Lily presented her with the exact same blanket. The intention was sweet - we had matching blankets! Except we didn’t. Mine was no longer the pristine work of my Great Grandma Lily’s magical hands, mine was a disaster. And I lost it. I cried, and cried, and there may have been some wailing involved.
I blame it on the yarn.
My Great Grandma Lily, in her loving and perfectionist Finnish way, set out to rectify the situation. She took my tattered old rag of a blanket, and in retrospect (and from what I now know about knitting), it probably would have been much easier and less time consuming for her to just make me a brand new one. But she didn’t. She took the blanket that she made with love - and I destroyed with love - and reconstructed the whole thing.
I continued to love that blanket until I left for college. My Mom, unbeknownst to me, went from store to store sticking her fingers into all the store-sample blankets trying to find me a less embarrassing Hottie that I could take with me as I left home. I’m not sure how the passerby image of a lady jamming her hands into every blanket in the isle sat with my Mom, but it was love. Just like Great Grandma Lily making, and remaking, my blanket.
As I’m well into my 40s, there have been many Hotties to come and go (and by “go” I mean ruined), and I was lucky enough to find a partner who is totally fine with the finger wrapping and kneading of the extra blanket in the bed. In fact, he even tried it, and gave a nod of approval. Once even stating, “This feels good.”
Let’s blame the yarn.
