Small Socks
So, I finished them. The socks for Ana (newly nine-years-old), I mean. The ones she really wanted me to make for her. They are beautiful and they took an enormous amount of time on itty-bitty knitting needles. Here they are drying after their inaugural hand (!) washing.
I already know that she's not going to wear them. She put them on once during the process and immediately proclaimed them "itchy" and took them back off.
I knitted them anyway. I knitted them knowing this even before I started them.
This morning, I took the girls to school (this boot was made for hobbling) and when I went to kiss her goodbye, she ducked her head and butted up against me like calves do their mothers. I whispered, "I'm sorry. No more kissing in public?" She nodded, embarrassed, and then leaned all her weight against me in apology.
Here, my love. I knitted you some socks. And I knitted every bit of my love for you, and my mixed feelings about you growing up, into each of the 34,000 stitches.
I don't even care if you wear them or not.
Small things.
I already know that she's not going to wear them. She put them on once during the process and immediately proclaimed them "itchy" and took them back off.
I knitted them anyway. I knitted them knowing this even before I started them.
This morning, I took the girls to school (this boot was made for hobbling) and when I went to kiss her goodbye, she ducked her head and butted up against me like calves do their mothers. I whispered, "I'm sorry. No more kissing in public?" She nodded, embarrassed, and then leaned all her weight against me in apology.
Here, my love. I knitted you some socks. And I knitted every bit of my love for you, and my mixed feelings about you growing up, into each of the 34,000 stitches.
I don't even care if you wear them or not.
Small things.
Comments
-Margaret
Because when your children are grown, they'll read this. Or open their drawer and remember that you knitted those socks.
And they'll kiss you in public.