All Wound Up (9 page)

I stare. I reread that one. I stare again, and realize that this is the one. This is the missing piece of the puzzle—how it is that I and every other knitter I know can meet most of these criteria and still insist that it’s not a problem in the slightest. I admit that the human ability for denial is pretty remarkable, and that we’re all loathe to admit we have a problem, but most of us are pretty quick to identify problems in others, and I can honestly say that I don’t feel like my friends and co-knitters (all of whom would have to tick off as many boxes, if not more) have any sort of a problem at all, despite being the poster kids for addictive behavior as it’s defined by this collection of doctors and smart people. The whole way down this list of criteria I’ve been trying to make it fit, trying to accept that you can be addicted to almost anything, and that maybe this really is the same as being addicted to gambling, heroin, liquor, or sex. Maybe (like all addicts) we just don’t want to hear about our problems. Now, though, this last item explains everything and takes the heat off entirely.

For something to be a true addiction, for it to be a problem in your life—it has to actually be harming you in some way. It’s okay for you (and me) to be filled with glee at the thought of a yarn sale. It’s awesome, actually, provided that you aren’t knocking over a convenience store for the cash on your way there. A big stash can really just be a supremely good collection of something you’re interested in, provided you haven’t told the children they have to sleep in a tent in the backyard so Mama has more yarn room. You can be as interested in this as you want, and it’s not an addiction until you’re trying to score clean needles and some acrylic in an alley, just so you can do a few lines, or are shakily crawling through the broken window at your local yarn shop, because you really, really can’t wait until morning. Unless that’s you, we’re fine.

1. Buying yarn to lift my mood will only make me feel better for a little while. Then I will have less money and less space, which is actually less uplifting. This is actually true about almost all shopping.

2. It saves time to take time to do things right. I resent the hell out of that one, because even after almost forty years of knitting, I still can’t believe that there’s no way to speed this up. I have to admit, though, that after forty years of trying to figure out where to cut corners, it turns out that knitting just doesn’t work that way. Cutting a corner means what you make is less good, things that are less good are either less durable or funny looking, and either way people wear that stuff less (or not at all) and then you’ve totally wasted your time because you have a sweater with one sleeve that sort of puffs because you didn’t rip back and have a do over when you totally knew that the short rows were funny, and now nobody’s ever going to wear it. For example. Not that I learned that the hard way or anything.

3. It takes me about sixteen hours to knit a plain pair of sock-weight socks.

4. I do not knit socks full time.

5. Clearly, understanding items 3 and 4, my expectations concerning how much sock yarn I should be buying are way too high.

6. Related to items 3, 4, and 5 above, I may be dangerously delusional… since I understand these things and still don’t think this means I have too much sock yarn.

7. There is absolutely nothing that can be said to one’s employer to properly explain that you have a knitting deadline for your sister’s baby and really can’t come in to work. I would have better luck getting a day off if I said that all my clothes burned up in a house fire and that coming to work means coming naked.

8. No matter how interesting it is to me, and no matter how long I think about it, I have to admit that knitting probably moves too slowly to make a good basis for a reality show like
Dancing with the Stars
or
America’s Next Top Model
.

9. It is okay to use stash yarn. The integrity of the stash does not need to be maintained. It is not a mine shaft that will collapse in on itself and destroy everything if I take something out.

10. I should not resent it when socks wear out. The average woman weighs 150 pounds and takes between 5,000 and 8,000 steps a day. I should consider it a miracle and be nothing short of astonished if socks last more than a single wearing.

know that I will be voted down by bleeding hearts and sensitive types (and by offspring everywhere who think it’s a grand tradition) but I hate Mother’s Day. I really do. I’ve tried my level best to get behind it, especially when society makes such a big deal out of all the cards, but I hate it. I hate it with a burning passion that rivals my hatred of squirrels. (Long story.) As an experienced mother with more than twenty years on my résumé, I’m going on record to say that I would rather be treated decently throughout the year than have my children try to generate a gift not born of a genuine urge to thank me, but more out of an urge not to look like a complete arse on the day designated for mothers. I’m aware that their motives aren’t authentic, and it rankles.

When the kids were little, my rage centered around two things. First, it is a grave injustice to set a woman up to have her worth as a mother demonstrated in one heavily loaded day, as in, if you love me you’ll do a good job and this day will be smashing, but if you don’t love me then I will be able to tell, because this Sunday will be the same as last Sunday when you spilled an entire bottle of syrup on the kitchen floor and did nothing but smear it around with a damp cloth, so we had to worry about the cat getting stuck again. Second, I’ve always thought it was brutally unfair that Father’s Day goes down so much better, mostly because the backbone of Father’s Day are the mothers who keep it running right, and that Mother’s Day is, much to its detriment, run by fathers and children who don’t know that what most mothers want on this day isn’t a breakfast in bed that they’ll have to pretend to like and clean up afterward, but to stay in bed and read a book, or have a bath without anyone talking to them through the door.

When the girls were really tiny, Mother’s Day didn’t go well because they were babies, and babies don’t care about Mother’s Day (or any other day, for the record). They still puke on that day, and they still want only you on that day and you still can’t stop them from peeing down your skirt in a restaurant on that day, even though it’s been clearly marked to be your day. The most loving spouse can’t make a baby not wake you up seventeen times to be nursed on Mother’s Day. Intelligent women, myself included, should give up entirely on any Mother’s Day involving a human young enough to have no control over their bodily fluids, and lower their standards accordingly.

When the girls were a little bigger, they couldn’t focus on it, and if you can’t spell “Mother’s Day” you probably won’t be able to pull if off. Mother’s Day is about putting someone else ahead of yourself, and little ones can’t do that—and even if they do try, just understanding that it’s Mother’s Day really isn’t enough to stave off the temper tantrum that’s inevitable if you are six years old and the card you tried to make is stuck to the table with glue. I let go of those days too, even as I soaked the glue and sparkles off of the table and soothed my child’s disappointment by assuring them that I’d never wanted anything more for Mother’s Day than sparkles embedded in the carpet and a three-hour cleaning job, and that it was better that the card was stuck on the table. Now I could see it all day long.

When they were teenagers, I’m pretty sure that what went wrong was that simply by their nature, being people who are busy becoming people and therefore not able to pull their heads out of their arses for fifteen seconds, they had some selfish behavior. On one classic Mother’s Day, I remember letting go entirely when I told a teenager I’d rather they stayed home and spent time with me that evening, and they turned to me point blank and said that since I was always in charge “every day was Mother’s Day” and that they didn’t see why they shouldn’t even up the injustice by going to the movies with their friends.

It was always a disaster—a terrible disaster—and it took me years to work out that it was a disaster not because they didn’t love me, but because I was actually buying into the idea that this was some sort of report card. That if they really cared, this was my children’s chance to show me, and that if they really loved me they would do well, or at least be nice to me, or at least not choose today to flush something of mine down the toilet or try to hustle me for twenty bucks so they could go out with their real friends who really cared about them and have some real fun.

I would stand there and think, “How can you treat me this way? It’s Mother’s Day. It’s supposed to be the day that you show me how much you love me, and this is it? This is the best you can do? This is all that you can find in your heart for me? The stupid fight about belly-button piercing? This is what you’re giving me?” Then I would dissolve into tears, not understanding the irony in the fact that if there weren’t children, and they didn’t act like children, I wouldn’t need to be a mother, and, then, feelings injured to the point of breaking… I’d haul off and cancel the whole thing. (That’s right. I’m that woman. The woman who cancels Mother’s Day. It’s supposed to be about me. I can do that if I want to.) Some years I even preemptively cancelled it, taking my stand in late April.

It wasn’t until lately, when my children are big enough to play the game, that it finally occurred to me that the reason Mother’s Day didn’t sit right with me was because it wasn’t about me. It was about the myth of happy mothers, and selling lots of cards and flowers, and it turns out that pinning all your hopes on one day like it was an award with a title called “How Much My Family Loves Me” is pretty stupid. I mean, the children charmed me and were little turds every day. Why attach more significance to what they dish up on one Sunday in May?

Now my children are big, and instead of the ritual gifts I used to get (raise your hand if you have more than one macaroni encrusted juice can pen holder), I’m going to dinner with my three daughters, and they’ll likely pay, and one of them will bring flowers, and they’ll all toe the societal line, doing everything they’re supposed to, and I’ll do what I’m supposed to by being flattered and happy, and grateful, and I really, really will be grateful. Not necessarily grateful for the dinner or the flowers, but grateful for children who care enough to get them for me, care enough to arrive, are employed and sensible enough to afford to treat me, and who are sober enough to know it’s Mother’s Day at all. I will be grateful, and I will be happy, and I will look back and be glad that all of those difficult Mother’s Days are behind me. I’ll be grateful that nobody’s going to puke this Mother’s Day, that nobody is going to yell this Mother’s Day, that nobody is going to be a sixteen-year-old who screams, “Why do you think it should be about you all the time?” on Mother’s Day. Nope. I’ll be another of the happy smiling mothers, sitting in a local restaurant with her happy smiling children, her bunch of flowers, being outwardly grateful for the gifts, and inwardly grateful that I don’t put much stock in this day, and that none of my kids are in prison.

These are the easy Mother’s Days, the ones where the expectations and I have come to a fragile peace. The Mother’s Days that don’t end in rage or tears, and the ones where I know that all the other days of being a mother mean more than one Sunday in May, and as far as I’m concerned, the cultural expectations that have a woman who hates breakfast in bed eating one anyway (and then cleaning up the mess afterward) while pretending that she likes it can shove off. The only thing that I miss about those Mother’s Days is that the bouquet was a grubby bunch of dandelions and it came with a hand-drawn card that told me that I was loved… and then asked for a loan of five bucks to buy me a present.

was with Angela when she lost her mitten. It sounds like it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it really was, and I know that, now that it’s over, Angela thinks of it more as a regrettable incident than an “episode” but I have to tell you, when that woman first realized her mitten had gone walkabout, she came off the rails. Her mittens were, to be fair, really, really beautiful mittens. They were dress mittens, knit to go with her good coat, knit at a fine gauge, on tiny little needles. They had braids on the cuff, that elegant Latvian knitting trick that takes three rows of clever knitting and turns it into the most unlikely of events, and I knew that Angela had made herself crazy working those braids. There were two on each mitten, enclosing a very pretty band of colorwork in delft blue and white. Above the braids they were intricately patterned, with stylized flowers embraced by twining vines. The palms were a pretty geometric pattern that I knew she had divined herself, and the thumbs, the thumbs lay imperceptibly against the palms when you weren’t wearing them. They were a work of fine art, no less beautiful than the Mona Lisa, and Angela had worked them carefully and thoughtfully. The colorwork lay perfectly flat without a hint of a pucker, and the tops tapered to a perfectly elegant point. They were the perfect blue to complement her dress coat, and she was as proud of them as she should have been. They were her dress mittens, and they were hard won.