I was told that there were enough diaper covers to last a lifetime.
I was informed that there were enough little bonnets and berets and turbans to match every outfit she would ever own.
I was told that the small baby blankets were lovely, but frustrating. Mom wanted to snuggle with her newborn, not just wrap her in love.
I created some sweaters, but making something that has to fit an actual human being is a challenge for me. My garments were too long and too short and too wide and too narrow. Looking at them in the closet, I wonder what I was thinking. Unless my granddaughter is built like a square, those sweaters may look a bit odd.
So, when Little Cuter sent me a link to a round, ripple afghan, I agreed to try. She chose the colors. I was to do the work.
And so, I began. The pattern was for an intermediate crocheter; I think I am still an advanced beginner. I had a terrible time determining exactly which hole was awaiting the hook. Changing colors was challenging as well; it took several starts before I figured out how to start a new row without the old color encroaching. I don't mind ripping out stitches. The activity itself is satisfying; doing it over and over again doesn't bother me at all. I am amused by the action; the finished product is less important than each individual stitch ... because each of those stitches is filled with love.
After a while, though, the whole project became frustrating. I put it aside and made something else, but Little Cuter kept asking about the round blanket. I can deny her nothing as she is baking my granddaughter. I picked it up again.
This time, I paid attention. I looked at the stitches as I created them. I counted between the changes. After a few rounds, the pattern began to emerge. Once I saw how it worked, my brain could relax. The piece took on a life of its own.
That life was one of explosive growth. Going around and around, increasing by two stitches in each section, time was passing and nothing was happening. I went from finishing a project in a day or two to returning, day after day, week after week, to the yellow and the grey and the white.
Around and around and around I went. TBG was freezing, putting on a sweatshirt every evening as I, underneath the ever increasing afghan, was warm and toasty in air conditioned comfort. After a while, it was large enough to share. His toes could nestle under an edge.
Determining the color pattern was a joint effort. I made another trip to Michaels for more yarn; the beauty of a huge afghan is that matching the dye lots is somewhat less important ... which was a good thing because the originals were no longer available. I went to two different Michaels to collect what was needed ... I can deny my child nothing, even when it entails shlepping around town in triple digits.
Tonight, sitting on her couch, her toes replacing her father's under the edge of my work, I knotted the last stitch. Congratulations ensued, and then I began the finishing. It was simpler than I had imagined it would be; the pattern lent itself to the needle quite easily. I was smart enough, half way through, to leave very long tails so that I could avoid having to weave short ends with a tiny hook. The needle is much much faster, and oddly satisfying in a "am I done with this yet" kind of way.
And yes, I am done with this.
Now we just need the baby.