About a week and a half ago, A. taught me how to crochet. That’s right, my husband taught me how to crochet. He learned from his uncle’s mom (he calls her grannie) while home on break from college and eventually made a huge blanket that we use regularly. He also crocheted gifts for family: a round blanket for his cousin’s newborn, Rangers outfits for other cousins’ kids, socks for his dad, a doily for his mom, you name it. Then, he says, he retired.
A. was excited to teach me. Except he kept grabbing at my project when I asked for help, so we got into a few “fake” fights. I called him bossy and threatened to stop working with him.
I decided to start with a scarf to get used to stitching and get in a rhythm.
Then I became obsessed. I don’t think I’ve done much else than crochet in the past week and a half. I even stayed up past midnight two different nights. One more row, I kept thinking. And then I’d be exhausted and sick to my stomach that I couldn’t stop.
I finished the scarf on Sunday, wrapped it around my neck, and sauntered around the house, very proud of myself.
Yesterday, I made A. a hat and a coaster (I plan to make several more coasters — they will be better than this first one.)
And can I just say: Damn does it feel good to actually create something useful. We’re off to Mammoth on Thursday (our first night away from the boy!) and I can’t wait to get use out of our new scarf and hat.