Knit Happens

There’s something about the days growing shorter and the return of the inescapable rain that calls me back to knitting. I guess it’s because I’m a looker.

Rest assured: I’m not referring to my looks but rather to my habit of staring at the needles as I knit. When I’m distracted and look up and away, frustrating mistakes inevitably happen – stitches are dropped, wrong rows are created and counts are lost – so I’ve learned to put the needles in hibernation during the summer.

Time to bring ’em back out!

With the kids hunkered down at far away universities I’m excited about two new knitting concepts. That of knitting uninterrupted, at times that I choose! I look forward to the effect this will play on my blood pressure.

This Saturday I zipped into my favourite knitting shop and picked up yarn for two projects. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about them as both are intended for folks who might stumble across this particular post. Instead, I’ll favour you with a yarn I spun for Troy Media in December, 2011 regarding a former project. It highlights the previous need to knit into the wee hours of the night and gives you a glimpse into my daughter’s personality.

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 Impossible. How can it not fit? It is identical to the one pictured on the knitting pattern: a lovely chocolate-brown merino wool beanie accented with soft, powder blue polka dots. It’s past midnight and my fatigued fingers are surely just playing tricks on me. I sit up straighter in bed, face the mirror, plop the almost finished hat on my head again and tug. Horrors. Once again it refuses to budge past the brim.

Countless hours of knitting have gone into this delight I’m making as a present for my 17-year-old daughter Meredith. However, with Christmas just around the corner, it’s the first time I’ve been able to try it on. The 128 stitches have been squashed together on the teeny, sleek, silver circular needles since first being cast. Only now, with the working of the crown shaping and the remaining 32 stitches residing on four, slender bamboo double-pointed needles, is the head opening large enough to test.

Eyeballing the creation perched precariously atop my brow, I feel the cold stirring of dread. It doesn’t fit me. It won’t fit Meredith. It would fit the crown of a medium-sized grapefruit. I’ve created a fruit hat.

No. That’s unacceptable. It’s supposed to be a daughter hat, one that will be worn throughout the chilly winter months of my girl’s final year of high school; one that will draw covetous looks from her friends and enable her to proudly (and honestly) proclaim ‘My mom made it for me!’

Dread takes a firm hold. Oh lord. There’ll be no keeping this disastrous turn of events from my blissfully unaware, sleeping daughter. Since first spotting the sample in the knitting shop window over a year ago, she’s eagerly anticipated the completion of her beanie. Witness to virtually every stitch of the journey, she’s savvy to the fact it’s nearly finished.

A sewer, not a knitter, she entrusted the job to me. It’s the number one item on her Christmas wish list. How can I tell her I’ve failed?

It’s just so alarming. Decidedly not blessed with the sewing gene, I can knit. I love to knit. The repetitive action of knitting row after row has always been very calming and soothing to me. While my creations could never compete with the perfection of a Martha Stewart, only minor alterations are usually required to have them meet the expectations of the pattern.

The fruit hat taunts me from the mirror. I stare back in utter disbelief. What did I do wrong? I followed the pattern religiously. It knit up so beautifully. Consulting the how-to instructions meticulously outlined in my bible “Knitting for Dummies,” I’ve been positively smug in my ability to keep the two colours true. Not one cornflower blue dot bled into the sea of chocolate-brown.

Snatching it off my head for a closer look, it’s obvious that the mocha hued brim, 16 rounds of straight circular knitting, is perfectly pliable. However, rigidity sets in like cured cement with the introduction of the polka dots. Why? I don’t know. Probably something to do with holding the yarn too tight. Frankly at this point I could care less how it happened. I’m simply exhausted and overwhelmed by the fact that it did.

Just moments ago, this hat was loved. Now it’s a vile representation of hours of wasted work. The thought of ripping it apart and starting again is abhorrent. I hurl it to the floor, snap off the light and drift off to sleep, adamant my daughter will be sporting a store-bought number this winter.

With morning a new reality dawns. As I reluctantly reveal the problem, Meredith’s face is a work of art. It flits from initial disbelief, to sadness, to sympathy, to kindness. Her simple query “Do we know any small children it might fit?” is my undoing. My heart reaches out to her. Bless her. From the minute she picked the pattern and carefully selected the yarn, she’s loved the idea of this hat. How can I not make it a reality?

Photos are taken, laughs are shared and I allow myself a knit-free week. Then, armed with smiling encouragement from Meredith, I pick up the bamboo needles and gently tug at the stitches. As the yarn springs free and the crinkly threads are wound once again into two balls of colour, a steely resolve emerges. Fruit hat be damned.  I can do this.

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True confession time. I stopped working on the hat redo after only a couple of rows. I was scared silly that the same thing would happen again. So, the nearly bare needles and fat balls of yarn lay untouched in my knitting bag for a solid year. Bad mommy.

What prodded me back into action? The arrival of multiple daughterly texts – each one describing an increasing need  for a warm hat during the cold months at university.

Yes, fruit hat be damned. I did this.

My next two projects are very different; one easy, the other complicated. I’ll reveal their creations upon receipt by their owners. In the meantime, favour me with your knitting nightmares, successes and projects on the go. I do love a good yarn.