I don't knit. I want to make that perfectly clear up front. I have knitted exactly three things in my life, roughly 25 years ago - a baby blanket for my niece, a trial scarf to teach myself how to make one, and the "real" scarf. The real scarf was a Dr. Who scarf I made for my First Eric for Halloween one year. I used the official pattern and everything, although he did make some minor adjustments to the colors.
In case you aren't familiar with the Dr. Who scarf, it looks like this. It's a very long scarf. Here's what the one I made looked like, although you can't see the part draped down in back:
Yes, that's me with the skinny legs
Did I mention that I knitted it in three days? Gave myself tendonitis, and haven't picked up the needles since.
Until this weekend, when I was suddenly taken with the idea. I blame all of you - you know who you are - you with your posts about Peace Fleese and kitchenering and colorways and...and...well, it's all your fault.
Because face it, knitting is a pretty silly hobby when you live someplace where the temperature only drops below 50 degrees two days out of the year. But, there I was in Hobby Lobby with Middle Daughter, and she found a yarn she really liked, and I thought, What the heck.
So, I bought some yarn, and bought some needles, because who knows where mine are after 25 years of NotKnitting, and jumped on the internet to learn how to cast on, because did I mention that I got my mom to cast on the blanket and the test scarf and the real scarf for me? And then I knit about four rows and jumped on the internet to remind myself how to cast off, because in my frenzy of concentration at trying to cast on I forgot to count my stiches and cast on about sixty bazillion of them and had to start over with something of a reasonable scarf width.
Then the fun part came. Because Middle Daughter didn't pick regular yarn, she picked some fringy slubby bocule-y type yarn that was nearly impossible to work with, for someone who hadn't picked up needles in a quarter of a century and whose eyes have aged to the point that anything less than arms reach away is blurrier than Liz Taylor in those White Diamonds commercials. Which, I should point out, makes it really, really hard to shave my underarms.
OK, so maybe I shouldn't point that out.
Anyway, the yarn was a pain to work with but remarkably forgiving. Then I realized that it was taking me forever to get through a row, and I counted my stiches, and I had accidentally increased a few. Like 15. Now, I can understand accidentally adding a stitch here and there, but 15? I decreased it back down and told Middle Daughter that it was just a knitted lump of Motherly Love. I tried to make it less accidental by increasing my stitches when I got to the other end. Ironically, I had to get on the net again to figure out how to increase on purpose, even though I apparently excel at doing it on accident.
Middle Daughter was pleased with the end result, which looks like this:
And now The Boy has decided he wants one, too. And Middle Daughter wants a Harry Potter scarf.
Guess I should get on the net and figure out how to purl.